


Blink

by FreyaOdin



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Car Accidents, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Mitch, Hurt Scott, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8035861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin
Summary: Scott's vision is fuzzy. Hazy. Unfocused like it hasn't been since the LASIK. He vaguely wonders why, but his head hurts so much he's distracted and can't figure it out.
He thinks for a second that he's drunk. That he's given himself the mother of all hangovers. But his shoulder and his arm and his chest and his side and his leg also hurt—shit, his shoulder really hurts—and he's never been drunk enough for that to happen before.
Plus, if he's not mistaken, that's his steering wheel in front of him, through the haze and the dust and the noise and the red and whatever the deflated white thing is. Regardless of how drunk he's been, he would never be drunk in the driver's seat of his car.
Fuck. Fuck, he hurts.
The spiderweb pattern across his windshield is kinda pretty though, sparkling like that in the sun.
Blink.





	1. Crash

Scott's vision is fuzzy. Hazy. Unfocused like it hasn't been since the LASIK. He vaguely wonders why, but his head hurts so much he's distracted and can't figure it out.

He thinks for a second that he's drunk. That he's given himself the mother of all hangovers. But his shoulder and his arm and his chest and his side and his leg also hurt—shit, his shoulder  _really_  hurts—and he's never been drunk enough for that to happen before.

Plus, if he's not mistaken, that's his steering wheel in front of him, through the haze and the dust and the noise and the red and whatever the deflated white thing is. Regardless of how drunk he's been, he would never be drunk in the driver's seat of his car.

Fuck. Fuck, he hurts.

The spiderweb pattern across his windshield is kinda pretty though, sparkling like that in the sun.

**Blink.**

"Scott? Scott, answer me! Please? Scotty, please!"

Mitch is leaning over him, brown eyes as wide and frantic as Scott's ever seen them. He's got blood on his face and glass stuck in his hat and his left wrist is at a weird angle and his phone is pressed to his right ear. He inhales sharply when they make eye contact. "He's awake. Oh God, I think he's awake. But he's not— Scott?"

Scott tries to answer Mitch. He really does. But he's also wondering where they are and who Mitch is talking to and why Mitch is shaking and what's wrong with Mitch's arm and when the sirens he can hear in the distance are going to shut up because his head really fucking hurts and how is Mitch going to get those bloodstains out of his new white Valentino blouse?

Everything's getting fuzzier again.

"No, no, no! God, please don't pass out again, Sco—"

Damn. Mitch is going to be really pissed when he notices his blouse.

**Blink.**

 

There's a stranger beside him, a middle-aged black woman who's adjusting something near his head. There's also something uncomfortable as fuck around his neck and face. Scott thinks he whimpers—he'd really rather be able to use a more complimentary descriptor than 'whimpers' but he's pretty sure that's what fits—and that catches her attention.

"Hey there, you're awake." Her voice is light and friendly. Mezzo-soprano for sure. "What's your name, handsome?"

"Sc-Scott." The thing over his face is muffling his voice. He kind of hates it.

"Scott. I'm Linda. I'm a paramedic. We're getting you out of here, but it's going to be a little while yet."

Scott raises his right hand to try to figure out what's on his face, but then he's distracted by the needle and tube stuck in the back of his arm. "What? Wa'sat?"

"It's saline," she says, gently pulling his hand away and down. "You're bleeding quite a bit and we can't get to all of your injuries yet. I've given you something for the pain. You've got a mask on because I'm a little concerned you're not getting enough oxygen and I've also put a neck brace on you. Can you squeeze my hand, Scott?"

Scott does so, not really sure why. But it makes her smile so maybe that's worth it.

"The brace is just a precaution," she says. "As soon as they've freed you, we want to be able to get you out of here as quickly as possible."

A precaution. Great. She should try wearing a back brace for a few years as a kid and then see how much she likes precautionary ones in future, even if it's not the same type of brace.

Scott's not sure what's going on and he can't see much through the spiderweb windshield and he can't turn his fucking head in this fucking brace to see what's to his left and  _Jesus_  he hurts and Laura...Lydia...Li-what-the-fuck-ever is in Mitch's seat spouting numbers at someone on the radio thing attached to her shoulder.

Wait. She's in Mitch's seat. Where the hell is-"Mitch? Mitch?!"

He doesn't know how much of his panic is in his eyes but the woman is suddenly filling his field of vision, brown eyes sympathetic and calm and pretty. He's always had a thing for brown eyes.

"Hey. It's okay. Your friend—Mitch? Mitch is okay. He's just outside; he's in much better shape than you are, but we're taking care of him. We needed him out of the way so we could help you. Don't worry. I don't think he's going anywhere until we've got you out of this car and we're all on our way to the hospital. He was pretty vocal about staying."

Oh. Scott's not sure how to feel about that. He wants Mitch cared for and he thinks help for himself is a good idea because he seems to seriously fucking need some.

It's just that Scott always feels better when Mitch is right beside him.

**Blink.**

 

Fuck, fuck he  _hurts_.

He thinks he cries a bit. He's fairly sure he should be embarrassed about that but there's a pretty black woman beside him and she looks concerned rather than judgemental and then she sticks a needle full of something into a tube in his arm—why is there a tube in his arm?—and a moment or six later everything feels less and he'd kinda like to kiss her except she's too old for him and a girl and probably married to a guy built like a linebacker who's not good enough for her but they have three kids, a dog, and a goldfish so they're making things work, and he doubts he's looking anything close to attractive at the moment what with the mask and the dirt and the blood even if none of that is true and God whatever was in that needle he'd really really like some more of it right the fuck now.

"Is that better?"

Much. "Th—thanks."

She smiles lopsidedly. "That's why they pay me the mediocre bucks." She abruptly looks up and to Scott's left. She's got about a million little braids in her short hair and they're kind of mesmerizing, even blurry like everything is right now. An indistinct baritone says something Scott can't follow and she nods. "Almost there, handsome. We'll get you out soon now. I have to get out of the car for a second but I'll be back in just a minute. Do you understand, Scott? I'll be back."

"Yeah. You're the Terminator."

She's got a really great smile, whoever she is. She reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze, then she's gone.

And then there's a loud screeching of metal on metal near his ear and the car shakes and the sunlight brightens until it's not just shining on the windshield but also directly on his face and Scott can feel but not hear himself screaming.

 **Blink**.


	2. Emerg(e)

"-nty-four years old. No known medications. History of scoliosis according to the other vic in the car. No other known conditions. Unresponsive on my arrival with-ˮ

Scott's lying on his back. There are bright lights flashing by above him, faster than he could track on a good day. People are running along beside him, none of whom look familiar, although he thinks he's heard the mezzo-soprano voice doing most of the talking somewhere before.

"-lse ox was 91% with BP 85 over 54 and heart rate of 132. Looks like periorbital facial fractures on the left. Some intraocular hemorrhaging in the left eye, but pupils are both responsive. Left shoulder took the brunt of the impact and appears dislocated with compound fracture of the proximal hume-"

Whatever surface Scott's on slows and then turns a corner in a dizzying, confusing, terrifyingly unfun way. He swallows back bile and swears he'll never make fun of Alex for hating carnival rides again.

Wait. Not Alex. He doesn't take rides with Alex anymore.

Mitch then. He'll never make fun of Mitch for hating carnival rides again.

That? That might possibly be a lie.

**Blink**.

 

"—ycardic due to hypovolemia. He woke up shortly after I started normal saline and gave him 150 micrograms of fentanyl. Appeared coherent and responsive; he followed verbal direction and expressed concern for his passenger but lost consciousness shortly thereafter. Gave another fentanyl dose 34 minutes after the first when he woke again and was experiencing inadequate relief. He again responded coherently but lost consciousness and stayed under once firefighters were finally able to clear the other vehi—"

"Transferring him in three. Two. One."

Scott's world shifts as he's lifted from one surface to another just as uncomfortable surface. It fucking hurts and he has to yell, voice rough and hoarse.

A young man, about Scott's age, leans over him and smiles gently. "Mr. Hoying? Scott. You're at Cedars-Sinai Hospital. I'm Ben—"

Scott would  _really_  rather be hanging out with a different Ben right now. There's never been anything worse than a hangover going on when he's with that Ben. Usually some pretty great music, too.

This soundtrack, on the other hand, sucks.

"—and we'll take good care of you."

It's such a patronizing thing to say and yet Scott finds it reassuring anyway. Maybe this Ben can stick around.

Scott wonders if he can sing. Tenor. Maybe baritone? Nah, tenor. Scott prefers tenors.

**Blink**.

 

Someone is undoing his belt.

Don't get him wrong; Scott's often fine with someone else removing his belt. Eager even, especially if he's pressing them up against a wall and his tongue is down their throat and they're moaning into his mouth and touching him everywhere and he's calculating the easiest way to get them spread out on a bed or over the back of a couch without any of that changing.

He's spent a lot of time wishing it was one particular person spread out for him, but since that's unlikely to ever happen, he's been happy to play with whoever's attractive and attracted to him while he waits to find someone he can love just as much.

So no, there's no problem with someone else undressing him. It's just that he prefers to know what's going on and who he's with first.

He also vastly prefers when it's a guy.

The woman who's just slid his belt off is petite and has light brown skin and long brown hair pulled up in a bun and is maybe thirty. She puts the belt aside and grabs some weirdly shaped scissors and then  _cuts a slice all the way down the leg of his designer jeans._

"Hey," Scott slurs. He really means for it to sound more outraged and less stoned and muffled than it comes out.

"Hey," answers a tenor voice near his head. An upside-down face appears in his field of vision. "Hi, Scott. I'm Ben, guessing you don't remember that. I'm a nurse here in the ER. Sorry about your pants. We're at the cleaning you up phase of this afternoon's program. If your vitals continue behaving themselves, we'll take you down for a CT scan next so the docs can get a good look at what needs fixing."

Ben has an empty piercing in his left eyebrow and a friendly smile. He's mildly pinging Scott's gaydar, though he can't quite pinpoint why. Ben's also got a wide-toothed comb and blue latex gloves on, both of which are spattered with blood, a fact that has Scott telling his gaydar he doesn't give a flying fuck what it thinks.

"I'm currently pulling glass out of your hair," Ben says. "And Suhana down there is sacrificing your fashion sense to the gods of expediency and pain minimization."

Scott really can't argue with pain minimization. He'll miss those jeans though.

Suhana looks up and smiles, giving Scott a small wave with her evil scissors. She turns back to her task but then her head jerks up, smile freezing in place. "Wait. Scott  _Hoying_?"

Ben's hands still in Scott's hair. "You know him?"

"Yes! I mean, well, no." She's still staring. "Not personally. Scott's a pretty famous singer."

Scott's not sure if it's better or worse that his clothes are being destroyed by a fan rather than someone who knows nothing about him. Little of both, maybe? 

Mitch is going to laugh. Except Mitch usually gets pissed off at him when he's hurt himself, which he apparently has. So maybe not.

"'Pretty famous' like small-but-loyal-internet-following?" asks a deep voice of unknown origin. "Or 'pretty famous' like we-need-to-call-security-to-keep-the-whackos-and-paps-out?"

"Um," Suhana finally breaks eye contact and looks to the mystery person. "Kinda in between? But closer to the latter, I think."

Scott's going to have 'kinda pretty in-between famous' engraved on his tombstone. Or maybe tattooed on his ass.

Mitch would definitely laugh at that.

"Great," says Basso Profundo Who Isn't Avi. "Okay. Kelsey, page Dwayne so his people are aware and then get Amanda down here so she can coordinate Dr. Kwan's press wrangling plans if necessary. Is the other guy from the car famous too? Dr. Ibrahim's patient, the loud bald one with this guy's proxy. Gracie? Grazie?"

"Oh shit," says Suhana. "Mitch Grassi was in the car too?"

Shit. Mitch was in the car too?

**Blink**.

 

The pain in his shoulder and arm starts out dull and throbby and is probably what wakes him, but soon it's sharp and hot and so bad he starts to shake with it. He tries to say something, catch someone's attention, but there's loud clicking and whirring all around and something covering his face and for a second everything freaks him out enough that he almost forgets the pain but then, nope, there's definitely going to be no forgetting of that.

The clicking and whirring abruptly stop and a young woman in a lab coat comes rushing in. "It's okay. You're okay." She grabs at the hand he's got clutching the thing over his mouth. "It's just a breathing mask. It's helping you get enough oxygen."

Oh. Oxygen is good.

Pain is bad.

"H-hurts," he manages to say. "Please, it hurts."

A wave of it crashes over him and his back arches without his consent. He tries unsuccessfully to curl into a fetal position, but something's holding him down and the attempt makes everything worse and he couldn't stop the sob that escapes him even if he wanted to. Soon there are two more people in the room and they're saying things he can only barely understand about tolerance and fast metabolizer and multi-modal something-or-other and fuck, why aren't they just knocking him unconscious with a baseball bat?

Someone pushes a syringe into his IV and it seems to take forever for anything to get better, but then it finally does and he's so relieved he can't ev—

**Blink.**

 

There are too-bright lights glaring down at him and it smells kinda like his sister's kitchen after she goes apeshit with the disinfectant whenever Landon's got a cold. The whole world and everything about it seems fuzzy and sterile. He can't really feel much, though when he concentrates he feels just enough to know he should be really happy about the whole not-feeling-much thing.

An older white guy with kind brown eyes leans over him, wearing thick glasses and a blue surgical mask and hat thing. "Mr. Hoying?" he asks with a soothing baritone drawl. "I'm just about to put you under so we can start fixing you up, son. I hear you slept through most of your scans and the decisions that were made. You need to ask anything before we start?"

Scott has no idea what to ask. Scans and decisions? What does that even mean?

But he thinks the 'under' idea has merit.

**Blink**.

 

There's quiet beeping and whooshing and floating and something warm covering him. It'd be nicer if it was some _one_  warm covering him, but this is nice too.

**Blink**.

 

The beeping is kind of annoying. The warmth and floating are nice, though.

**Blink**.

 

He's moving? He thinks he's moving. Or at least whatever surface he's on is moving. There's a woman's voice saying something. Maybe to him? Maybe not. Doesn't matter; he can't parse her words and he doesn't care enough to try harder.

**Blink**.

 

"—ent well. No complications beyond those expect—ˮ

"—ylactic antibiotics, since he's at higher than average risk of infection. Sign here plea—ˮ

"—s he going to be okay?"

"—ow more in the morning—ˮ

"—ooking at a long recovery, but he's unlikely to lose—ˮ

"—e's young and healthy, Mr. Gras—ˮ

**Blink**.


	3. Proxy

"-eed anything?" Scott knows the voice, like  _really_  knows the voice, but can't quite figure out why right at the moment.

"I need his parents to get here before anyone asks for permission to do or not do anything else," Mitch snaps. Fingers tighten where they're threaded through Scott's. They feel good. "I'm going to fuck it up and make the wrong decision."

' _I_  trust you,' Scott tries to say, even if he has no idea who or what Mitch is ta **l** king about. He can't stand how sad and stressed Mitch sounds.

What comes out is a sigh that's too quiet for even Scott himself to hear. That's...disconcerting. Kind of like how he can't really feel his own body right now.

"He trusts you, Mitchy," says Kirstin. And fuck, Scott should really have known her voice anywhere. In his defence, she doesn't sound like herself. She sounds subdued, like she's sad or frightened. He really wants to hurt whoever made her sound that way. "But I meant like a magazine or some more ibuprofen or something. I can't actually make their plane fly any faster."

"I'm sorry, Kirst. I'm just so-"

"Anxious and worried that you want to throw up and Scott can't just fix it for you this time? I know, hon. I understand."

Scott's glad someone understands, because he's pretty lost. Why can't he fix what?

It's quiet for a while. Scott's just about drifting off again when Kirstie suddenly says, "You should tell him."

Who? What?

Mitch seems to know, because he huffs impatiently. "There's nothing to tell."

"Riiight." At least Kirstie's sounding more like herself now; she's broken out the tone she usually saves for when one of the other four of them is being particularly stupid. Scott's pretty sure he's still winning their unofficial count of how many times they've each earned it.

Second place is solidly Kevin. This right here could be Mitch pulling ahead of Avi for third.

"He doesn't feel the same way, Kirstin," Mitch says, and oh, he sounds so defeated. Scott wants to fold him up in his arms and make everything hurting him just go away. Mitch lets go of his hand, but then starts running his fingers over the back of it instead. "There's no point in rehashing it and putting a strain on our friendship again."

Scott's eyes are closed-they just  _won't_  open for him-but he's pretty sure he can hear Kirstie rolling her eyes.

"The last time you talked about it, you were seventeen. You know, back when both of you had your heads even farther up your own asses than they are now. Things change."

"Not this."

"You almost lost him, Mitch," Kirstie says, more quietly now. "You don't think it's worth the risk?"

Mitch doesn't answer her, but his fingers continue tracing over Scott's.

Scott's never been so confused in his life.

**Blink.**

 

"—eally sounds best." Kevin's voice is saying quietly. "At least he's out of intensive care."

"Yeah," Kirstie's voice answers from near Scott's head, just as quietly. The hand that's holding Scott's must be hers. It feels nice. Comforting and familiar, but too small.

Scott wishes Mitch was there.

It's silent for a few minutes, then a lock of hair that was tickling Scott's forehead is carefully tucked back behind his right ear. Kirstie clears her throat. "I, um. I called Alex."

"Oh," says Kevin. "Okay, wow."

_Why the hell would she call Alex?_

"Why the hell would you call Alex?" Mitch asks.

Oh, Mitch  _is_ there.

"He sent me a text and then left a frantic voicemail because he couldn't get through to you," Kirstie says. Her fingers smooth through his hair one more time. "He even tried calling Scott, which tells you how desperate he was. Someone tweeted him that snap of the wreck and asked him how it felt to have broken Scott's heart right before he died."

There's a beat of silence before Kevin says " _Please_  tell me you're kidding."

Scott and Alex didn't part on  _precisely_  bad terms, but they're still in that awkward phase where they circle around timing absolutely everything to avoid contact with each other while their sizeable number of mutual friends—they were together almost four years, they have a lot of mutual friends—all go for the Tony for the starring role in Pretending Nothing is Weird While Waiting for Two Seemingly Competent Yet Emotionally Stunted Adults to Pull Up Their Big Boy Pants and Move On With Their Lives, or at least that's how he overheard Mitch and Jake bitching about the whole situation.

But even if Scott has no idea what wreck and snap they're talking about and actively avoids thinking about Alex whenever he can manage it, holy shit someone telling Alex that Scott is dead and then basically blaming him for it is fucking cruel.

"Apparently our Wikipedia page had a date of death reported too, although that had been fixed by the time I saw it," Kirstie says.

_Fuck._

"Fuck," says Mitch, and Kevin grunts what sounds like agreement. "Why are people such utter assholes? Is Allie okay?"

"Once he heard from a reliable source that someone he spent years of his life being in love with wasn't actually dead? Yeah, he's doing better now."

"Who tweeted him the video?" Mitch asks. "Because I need to sociallyruin them."

"Oh, don't worry," Kirstie says, sounding as satisfied as Scott's ever heard her. "The fandom's  _on it_."

_Sweet_ , thinks Scott.

"Sweet," says Kevin.

**Blink.**

 

"He's going to be upset about the sleeve," Avi's voice says.

"No," Esther's replies. "He's going to be devastated about the sleeve. He's so in love with it."

What sleeve?

"For fuck's sake," Mitch snarls. "Romeo will figure out how to fix the fucking sleeve! I'll auction off half my fucking wardrobe if I have to to pay Romeo or whoever he recommends to fix the motherfucking sleeve."

Woah. Okay...Scott has no idea what's going on, but even he backs the hell up on the rare occasion that Mitch's mood is this bad.

Esther's always been braver than Scott. "So, um, yeah. Unrelated question. Is it by any chance time for your next dose of pain meds?"

"The good ones make me stupid," Mitch says, still sounding belligerent but at least being quieter about it. "I can't be stupid until his parents get here."

Scott's feeling pretty stupid himself. Pain meds? Parents?

"You two made me secondary proxy for a reason," Esther says gently. "In case you were both incapacitated at the same time. This qualifies, Mitchy. It doesn't have to all be on you."

"I know. And I trust you. We both do, obviously. But I can't... I need to be the one who..."

"It's easy for you to trust her with yourself," Avi says. "But it's harder to trust her with him."

"Um," Mitch says. "...Yes?"

Esther sighs. "I'd tell you you're being an idiot, but I'm pretty sure I'd still be having this conversation if things were the other way around."

"Oh, definitely," says Avi. "Except Mitch is being downright reasonable in comparison to what that would be like."

"No lie."

"You're both fucking hilarious," Mitch mutters, so quietly Scott can barely hear him.

Scott suddenly realizes there are fingers entwined with his own. They feel good, like they belong there. He concentrates and gives them a squeeze and hears a gasped "Scotty?" in his favorite voice before the fingers are squeezing his back.

**Blink**.


	4. Breathe

It smells...good? Comforting and secure, anyway. It takes Scott a while to figure out it's because he can smell the familiar combination of his mom's moisturizer and hairspray, with a dash of coffee thrown in.

"Rick, I think he's waking up," she says. There's the scrape of a chair on a hard floor and then fingers are smoothing through his hair and a hand is cupping his right cheek. "C'mon, Scott, honey. Show me those beautiful eyes of yours. Wake up, sweetheart."

It's hard. He feels like he's swimming through mud and his eyes just don't want to cooperate. He finally manages it, blinking and squinting into the too-bright light.

Ow. Headache.

"Here," his dad says, and the lights thankfully dim.

It lets Scott focus on his mom's face. He's propped sitting up, so he's pretty much even with her while she's standing beside his bed. She's trying and failing to hide a wince at first, but then she's smiling at him, watery and real. Her hair's as immaculate as ever, but her clothes are a bit wrinkled and her eyes are red. Like she's been crying.

He hates it when she cries. "S'okay, Mom."

Wow. He usually has to make a substantial effort for his voice to come out that gravelly. Or, y'know, lose it right before the final day of competition on national television and then belt for his life anyway.

"There you are," she says, her thumb gently rubbing back and forth across his cheekbone. "You had us so worried."

His dad comes up behind her, putting an arm around her and leaning so Scott can see him better. He places a big hand over Scott's, warm and dry and as comforting as when he was a little kid with a scraped knee. "It's good to see you awake, Scotty." He squeezes Scott's hand and then presses something into his palm. "It's a PCA pump. It's giving you a constant supply of pain medication, but it lets you control how much extra you get. They said to keep on top of it and that it's programmed to prevent overdose, so if you're hurting you press it, you hear me?" He smiles and pats Scott's forearm. "I need to tell the nurse you're awake."

Scott's a bit confused. He's in a hospital, obviously. With a drug pump thing, something he's never been injured enough to need before, even the few times he's landed himself in the ER. Does he push it to deal with his headache, or is that more of an ask-for-an-Advil sort of thing? He has to admit it's pretty much the worst headache he's ever had, including the morning after he, Mitch, Kirstie, and Will polished off an entire bottle of Jack Daniel's during junior year of high school. And it's lopsided, spread across most of the left side of his face instead of behind his eyes or across his forehead.  So he caves and pushes the button.

Which is when he notices he's got a tube running under his nose. One of those oxygen things he's seen in hospital dramas with unrealistically hot doctors or those weird-ass medical mystery documentaries Mitch sometimes convinces him to watch. There's another tube running into the back of his right arm. He follows one fork of it up to a grey machine with numbers on it—that'd be the PCA thing, right?—and the other to a hanging bag of clear liquid.

That can't be good.

His mom is watching him, still looking weirdly caught between smiling and sobbing. He's pretty sure she's supposed to be in Arlington right now. He can't remember them talking about visiting and it's not like them to come to LA without giving him a heads up first.

"What are y'all doing here?" he asks. It's possible his voice sounds even worse this time around.

She reaches for the jug and cup sitting on a nearby side table. But the incredulous look she has on her face just before she turns has him wondering what he's said that's so stupid.

"You were in a serious car accident, Scott. Where else would we be?"

Car accident.

Huh.

You'd think he'd remember that.

She must see how baffled he is, because she says, "You bumped your head pretty hard, honey. They think the side airbag prevented major damage. But between the concussion and the drugs they had to give you for pain, they weren't sure you'd remember much of the accident or the aftermath."

She holds a cup of ice water with a straw in it up to his lips, and he thinks it might just be the best thing he's ever tasted or felt. Why the hell is his throat so sore?

His hip and side hurt too, he realizes after a moment, but what's weirder is that he thinks he remembers his shoulder hurting so bad he could barely breathe, but now it's not hurting at all. In fact, he can't even feel it.

It takes him a long moment to work up the courage to turn his head—which, ow, his neck isn't in love with him either—and once he does he's grateful he took the time to brace himself.

No pun intended.

His shoulder and arm are there, thank fuck, not that he seriously thought they weren't. Just, y'know, confirmation is good. There's this elaborate sling thing holding his forearm across his chest, and so many bandages that he can't even see skin until almost his wrist.

But the major thing scaring the shit out of him is this metal scaffold-like contraption that seems to be attached to his shoulder with honest-to-God giant fucking screws.  _Through his skin_. Well, he can only see them disappearing between the gauze covering his shoulder, but it's pretty fucking obvious what else they've been driven through.

"What the—? Mom??"

"Your shoulder was badly broken. There was-there was a truck and it hit your car on your side. They did surgery but you need all that to hold everything in place while it heals."

He wants to ask more—because seriously, a truck? Wait,  _his_  car? He  _loves_ his car—but then a nurse bustles in with his dad, followed soon after by a disappointingly unhot doctor, and Scott's suddenly busy being poked at and having lights shined in his eyes and getting detailed but barely comprehensible explanations including 'acromioclavicular joint' and 'proximal humerus' and 'external fixation' and thankfully 'nerve block', which at least explains why he can't feel his arm.

Then he's being asked stuff like what the date is (still the first week of August, hopefully? How the fuck should he know? He just woke up) and can he remember this list of words (yes, surprisingly) and can he recite the alphabet in reverse order (about as well as he ever could, which is to say not very) and to please touch his nose five times as quickly as he can (he literally just shot himself up with narcotics, how is this fair?).

He's reassured by phrases like 'optimistic prognosis' and 'little chance of long-term cognitive repercussions' and "no apparent spinal injury", but not so much by 'substantial damage to the shoulder' and 'full recovery may take as much as twelve months'.

Twelve  _months_?

Both of his parents are asking questions about physical therapy and follow-up scans and home care options and pain relief but Scott's not really paying attention anymore because his world seems to suddenly be narrowing.

How is he going to be able to tour? They'll have to cancel at least the Oceania and Asia legs, won't they? That's going to mean a big loss for RCA and they just signed that deal with Ricola, who probably won't be happy. Not to mention disappointing so very many fans.

"Scott?"

Avi's going to be pissed about missing out on New Zealand; he's been dying to go for ages. And Esther's going to kill Scott for ruining all her team's amazing planning.

And even if he's well enough to sing by the start of the second North American leg, he probably won't be able to handle meet and greets; they're exhausting enough on a good day. And they're going to have to change all the choreo, right? Surely all that dancing and jumping won't be possible. Which means they'll have to change all the lighting and production and shit, forget Esther. Sooner's going to kill him first.

"Scott, are you okay?" He can vaguely feel a large hand cupping his jaw.

Scott and Mitch were supposed to be doing the interviews for the LGBTQIA documentary this week. Is it still this week? Maybe they can delay his part for a bit, and probably Mitch's because some of it was supposed to be filmed together, but too much would mean pushing back the release date and Scott's never been an executive producer before but this sounds like the sort of problem he's supposed to avoid causing.

And what about the Christmas album? It's not like they can delay that by a couple of months, it needs to be done well before December. They literally just announced it and only a couple of tracks have been recorded and some of it still needs to be arranged and Scott's usually heavily involved in that but how's he going to arrange if he can't play a piano? Avi's entire vocal range will be out of his reach on the damn keyboard, not to mention half his own.

"Scott?" his dad's voice asks. "You need to breathe with me, kiddo. Deep breaths, c'mon."

Fuck. How is he going to stay sane if he can't play his piano to shut off his brain?

What? Breathe?

Everything's kind of turning black around the edges but Scott finally manages to focus on his dad's face. His usually stoic, logical father is looking really frazzled around the eyes.

"Scott! Take a deep breath right now!"

Scott gasps in a breath, deep and painful and sweet. Oh. Yeah, okay. He probably should have been doing that all along. He pulls in another and then another, counting to five between each one when his father tells him to, and the blackness thankfully retreats.

"You with me, Scotty?"

"Ye-yeah. Sorry." His dad smiles gently, trying and failing to do a good impression of not being concerned.

Shit. Get it together.

"Is he often prone to anxiety attacks?" Scott somehow forgot the doctor was still there.

"Bless your heart," says his mom from her chair beside the bed where she's sat down at some point, and oh. That tone in her voice is terrifying when it's directed at Scott but always makes him want a big bag of popcorn whenever someone else is her target. "Only when someone announces things that may substantially affect his and multiple other careers as if they were tomorrow's weather."

She could literally teach college courses on dragging someone. She'd never call it that. She'd call it politely correcting someone's ignorance or some other nice-sounding euphemism. But she's a freaking pro all the same.

The doctor doesn't stay long after that, just says a few other things that Scott sincerely hopes someone's paying attention to, something about sleeping most of the time, and then thankfully leaves. Scott's too busy concentrating on continuing to count to five in between each breath so he doesn't freak out again.

He's suddenly got that Sesame Street number they did a few years back in his head.  _There's just one me._  It doesn't make him feel better.

He needs...he needs something. No. He needs some _one_.

"Where's Mitch?" he asks, wincing at how petulant he sounds even if he can't entirely regret it.  _He'd_ be there if  _Mitch_  was in the hospital dealing with screws through his skin.

Well, he  _would_.

Not that Scott would prefer that; he'd never wish Mitch was hurt instead of himself. But it does weirdly cross his mind that Mitch would rock this cyborg aesthetic way better than Scott's probably managing.

What the ever-loving fuck is in his IV?

Whatever. Doesn't matter. What does matter is Mitch isn't here when Scott really needs him to be and that  _hurts_. He feels...he feels abandoned.

"Oh, sweetie." His mom takes his good hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. "He was here. He wanted to stay; he's so worried about you. But he was hurting and exhausted. Mike and Nel bullied him into going back to the house for some rest once we got here." She smiles. "I'm so proud of him. He took such good care of you, Scotty."

Oh.

Well, of course he did. Scott's a gigantic asshole for thinking otherwise.

But he's also confused again. Mike and Nel? "What are his parents doing here? Wait. He's hurting?"

"Oh," his mom says, clearly taken aback. She squeezes his hand again and looks to his father for help.

His dad's face gets that pinchy look it always does when he's about to say something he knows won't go over well. "Mitch was injured too, Scott," he says. "He was in the passenger seat, so he's not nearly as hurt as you. He didn't even need to be admitted. But he's very bruised and sore and his wrist is broken. He needed some decent painkillers and something more comfortable to sleep on than a hospital chair. Mike and Nel took him home to get some real rest."

Mitch was in the car, too? "Was I..." Scott's dreading the answer, even though he kind of already knows it. Mitch was in the passenger seat of Scott's car. The only logical conclusion is: "I was driving?"

Say no. Say no. Say no.

His mom blinks. "Well, yes."

Fuck.

Fuck, he hurt Mitch.

**Blink.**


	5. Answers

Scott can't— he doesn't—what is he going to do? He's hurt the most important person in his life and then thought uncharitable, untrue things about him when he'd apparently been amazing. Which Scott should have known without being told because of course he was amazing. He's never not been amazing.

This is not how this week was supposed to go. They were so busy, but in between the interviews and the tour prep and the album planning, Scott was hoping... He's mostly over Alex and for the first time in ages neither he nor Mitch are in love with anyone else. He'd promised himself he'd hint—vaguely, he's not that brave—that his feelings are no longer entirely, okay no longer remotely, platonic. Maybe see if Mitch still has at least a bit of the crush he'd once confessed back when Scott was even more of an idiot than he is now. He hadn't been interested then, hadn't seen Mitch as anything more than his best friend. He'd let him down as gently as he could and somehow managed to keep their friendship strong after only a few weeks of weirdness.

But Scott's been regretting his stupidity ever since Mitch met Travis. The regret faded once he had Allie, but he'd never entirely stopped wondering what it would have been like if 18-year-old Scott had been able to truly appreciate everything Mitch was. And now that he and Alex are over, the regret and yearning are back in full force and he'd hoped to work up the courage to feel Mitch out about the whole thing.

But now he's trapped in a hospital bed and Mitch is hurt at home and probably so, so angry at Scott for fucking up his wrist and his career and his life. It's all overwhelming and even the sound of his mom's soft snoring from the chair beside his bed where she clearly fell asleep watching over him isn't enough to comfort him.

The room is dark and quiet and sterile and Scott's alone with his equally dark but unfortunately not quiet thoughts.

.  
.  
.

**Blink**.

 

"He didn't remember the accident." Scott's dad's voice gradually drifts into his sleep. "He was horrified when we told him you'd been hurt while he was driving. He basically shut down after that. I didn't know what...He's a good driver, but he's not always...Connie gets so angry about the car SnapChats."

Yes, yes she does. Scott's been on the receiving end of more than one lecture about it. He's always blown it off as his parents worrying too much, but wow, look where that apparently got him.

"I swear, Rick. It wasn't his fault." And oh, it's Mitch. Mitch is here. Mitch is...Mitch is defending him? "I know he snaps and texts too much when he's driving, but he wasn't this time. He was bitching about my choice of playlist, which I admit I put on just to drive him nuts, but he wasn't distracted."

Weird-ass electronica, then. Mitch has amazing taste in music, but his love of some of the more bizarrely-produced dance tracks baffles even Scott a lot of the time. Although sometimes it's totally worth letting Mitch be Mitch and play them on repeat just to see Avi's face when he hears it.

Scott may possibly be focusing on the less-than-key aspects of Mitch's point. He instead focuses on trying to claw his way back to full consciousness.

It seems to be working. Plus side, he can feel his shoulder again. Down side, he can feel his fucking _shoulder_ again.

Scott's dad lets out a puff of air. "What happened? Esther didn't know when she called to tell us and arrange our flights, and then we were too busy trying to get here to ask questions. Was anyone else hurt? The people in the truck?"

"There was only a driver." A hand settles on Scott's forearm, warm and comforting and too small to be his father's. "They took him away in an ambulance long before they could get Scott out. I couldn't see any serious injuries but they were doing CPR on the guy. The cops who interviewed me that night didn't have any information on his condition and I haven't heard anything since."

Oh. Oh, God. Scott's been so focused on feeling sorry for himself and worrying about Mitch that he didn't stop to consider whoever was in the truck. Is he... did he kill someone? The realization is enough to wake him up the rest of the way, and _shit_ he instantly regrets it.

The pain flares quickly and soon Scott's clawing at the blanket with his good hand as he tries to get a handle on it without actually screaming. He considers the deep groan that comes out instead to be a tolerable compromise. The warm hand slides up so it's gripping his bicep rather than his forearm, but thankfully it doesn't let go. Scott really needs the connection to someone else's body while his own is betraying him so badly.

"Scott, press this, kiddo," his dad's voice says, and the PCA button is placed in his hand before he even manages to open his eyes. He pushes it gratefully, and then pushes twice more for good measure even though he knows that's not how it works. The machine beeps its refusal back at him, but like an elevator or a crosswalk button, abusing it makes him feel like he's actually accomplishing something.

Mitch is sitting closest to him, beside his right shoulder. It's his hand on Scott's arm and he looks upset. Mitch winces a bit when they make eye contact—why is everyone doing that?—but also manages a small but genuine smile.

Once the pain starts to subside, Scott looks Mitch over. He takes in the too-pale face, the bruises and cuts, some of which have a couple of stitches or little bandages, the awkward way he's holding himself that suggests further damage under his clothes, his stubbled head and complete lack of makeup, and the bright pink cast around his left wrist. _Fuck_. "Mitch."

"God," Mitch's voice hitches. "It's so good to see you awake."

Scott's not so sure it's good to be awake. In fact, he's pretty sure it isn't. But if his being awake makes Mitch happy, he'll manage it for as long as possible. Besides, he'll never be able to sleep again if he doesn't at least start apologizing. "I...I'm so sorry, Mitchy."

His dad gets up from where he was sitting beside Mitch, and shit, Scott probably should have at least acknowledged him. He doesn't look mad about being ignored, though. "I'm going to go get coffee and let you boys talk. Mitch, call me if anything—if either of you need anything."

Mitch nods as Scott's dad leaves, peeking out into the hallway before shutting the door behind him. But then Mitch's forehead creases like it always does when he's confused. "You've got absolutely nothing to be sorry about."

"I was driving and...and you're hurt and I don't know how I fucked up but I must have and—ˮ Fuck. Fuck, he's going to cry.

"Scott," Mitch kinda looks like he's going to cry too. His thumb is smoothing back and forth over Scott's bicep and then he trails his fingers down his forearm to his hand, gaze flicking down so he can carefully avoid the IV port before meeting Scott's again. "You didn't fuck up, honey. It wasn't your fault at all."

"I was driving and you're hurt." It seems pretty clear to Scott. He was in control of the car. The car crashed. Therefore, it was his fault. He doesn't understand why Mitch doesn't get this. Why he's not angry.

"No, babe. No. We were stopped at an intersection." Mitch leans forward, closer to Scott even though it has to be even less comfortable for him to hold himself that way, eyes wide and sincere. "The light turned green and you followed the car in front of us across like any sane person would do. I didn't see the truck until it hit us, but you did. You swore and tried to swerve but there was no time."

Mitch wraps his hand around Scott's. It's weird. Usually it's the other way around and it's not often both of their right hands latched together. But it still feels right.

"The police came to talk to me once my wrist was set," Mitch continues. "They didn't seem surprised by what I said. I think...I think the guy might have already been unconscious when he hit us. Like from a heart attack or a stroke or something. He just went right through the red."

Scott's having a hard time processing this. "Is he dead?"

Mitch shakes his head. "I don't know. But even if he is, it's not your fault, Scott. _He_ hit _us_. He might have been dead even before he hit us. And really, the only thing I care about it the fact that _you're_ not dead." Mitch breaks eye contact to look down at their hands lying on the blanket. He weaves their fingers together, palm to the back of Scott's hand, smaller fingers threaded in the spaces between Scott's larger ones. Several tears well out of his eyes and down his cheeks. Normally Mitch would immediately be wiping them away, but right now he's just ignoring them. "For a while in that car I really thought you might be. Fuck, even once I knew you were alive I wasn't sure you'd stay that way. I've never been so scared in my life."

Scott swallows thickly. "You hate being scared."

"I really fucking hate being scared," Mitch agrees with a huff of forced laughter. He finally turns his head and rubs the wetness on his cheeks away on his shoulders, one after the other, sniffing loudly. He doesn't let go of Scott's hand. "So if you really feel the need to apologize for something, apologize for almost dying. You're not allowed to ever leave me, Stephanie. Not ever."

"I won't," Scott promises, even though he knows he can't promise any such thing. Mitch is _crying_. "You won't be able to get rid of me. You'll be eighty with five grown kids and twelve grandchildren all with the man of your dreams"—Scott already hates him, whoever he is—"and I'll be the grumpy old codger living in your guest room and yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off your lawn."

Mitch's smile slips a bit and he looks back down at the bed, pursing his lips. Scott's brain suddenly supplies Kirstie's voice out of nowhere: " _You should tell him_."

Figment-Kirstie has a solid point, although Scott has no idea why she's the one making it. Still, if ever there was a time to get away with risking it, it's when they're already being overly emotional and Scott is hopped up on conveniently blamable narcotics if it goes badly.

He blurts out "I don't want to live in your _guest_ room" just as Mitch says "I'd rather have you in _my_ room" and then they both stare at each other for a couple of stupidly long moments.

"Uh," Scott says intelligently.

"Huh," Mitch replies. They blink at each other a few more times.

Figment-Kirstie's eye roll is almost as impressive as the real thing.

Finally, Mitch says, "Um. So when you say you don't want to be in the guest room..."

Right. Okay, he can do this. "I was thinking, well, that it'd be nice if I was in _your_ room. Like, in your bed. Non-platonically, I mean. Really, really non-platonically would be my preference, actually. Um." Scott forces himself to stop talking. _Smooth_ , he thinks with an internal grimace. _Truly the smoothest attempt to escape the friend zone in the history of ever, Scott. Gold star._

Mitch just nods slowly, though. He's surprisingly not laughing, but he does stare at Scott for a really long time in that intimidating, expressionless way he's mastered. He's clearly processing something; Scott just has no idea if he's processing the idea of them together or how to let Scott down more gracefully than Scott managed the reverse in high school.

He's beginning to be afraid it's the latter when Mitch suddenly says, "Hit your medication button."

Hit the medication? Does Mitch not believe him? Thinks he's in too much pain to mean it? Or maybe he wants him more sedated before he breaks the news that he'd prefer they just stay friends. "I...what?"

"I'm going to kiss you," Mitch declares, smiling brightly like this is the most obvious solution ever. "Except I'm too sore to lean over to reach, so I'm going to have to sit on the edge of your bed. But I'm also too sore to be able to manage that gracefully, so I want you fully medicated first just in case because I really, really don't want to hurt you. But I _am_ going to kiss you."

Scott blinks and then untangles his hand from Mitch's just so he can press the PCA button as quickly as humanly possible.

It takes a few minutes to feel the effects, during which Mitch struggles to lower the bed rail one handed. Scott's actually pretty impressed he manages it, because figuring out mechanical devices isn't really one of Mitch's strengths. He seems motivated though, so by the time Scott can feel the warmth of lessening pain spreading through him, Mitch is ready to go.

He slowly eases himself down. Scott can't help but feel bad for how carefully he's moving; Scott's drugged up to the gills, but poor Mitch must be on substantially weaker painkillers. Still, he gets himself settled without too many problems—the one time he accidentally jostles them both, Scott clamps down on the pained moan that threatens to spill out because he'll be damned if he discourages this in any way—and then his mouth is hovering above Scott's, warm breath drifting over Scott's lips.

"Okay?" Mitch asks, resting his good hand on Scott's chest near his good shoulder, carefully avoiding touching his strapped opposite arm.

"Hell, yes."

Then Mitch's lips are on his. It's so gentle, a slight press that's hardly even moving. It still hurts; Scott can feel even this light touch radiating across the left half of his skull and through every bruise and cut on his face and he's sure by the look of Mitch's own injuries that he must be feeling similarly. But it's also so very good that he doesn't want it to end.

Mitch pulls back for a second, raises his hand from Scott's chest to trace along his jaw with the back of his fingers. He smiles, beautiful and wide, despite how it must pull on his face. "I love you, you know. I'm in love with you."

Scott's never been able to resist smiling back when Mitch's dimples come out to play, never mind when he's confessing something Scott thought he'd never, ever get a chance to hear. "I'm in love with you, too."

Mitch presses a gentle kiss to Scott's forehead. Scott thinks he's going to back away, starts thinking up a protest to stop him from doing so, but then their lips are back together. It's tremulous, neither of them have the strength to turn it into anything but light and sweet, but it's still so, so good that Scott thinks he might die after all.

"Oh!" exclaims a voice from the doorway.

Mitch's lips break away from his and they both awkwardly turn towards the sound.

It's their mothers. It's _both_ of their mothers.

Apparently even light and sweet kisses are sufficient to prevent either of them from hearing a damn door opening.

"Connie," Mitch greets drily. " _Nel_. How's it going?"

Scott's mom is smirking. "We just came up to keep you company and see how you both were, but I see you're doing just fine."

"Is this new?" Nel asks, grinning. She looks so much like Mitch at the moment. She has the same gorgeous dimples. "Of course it's new, because you wouldn't have dared keep this from us. Right, _Mitchell_?" It's definitely more of a threat than a question, but she's practically bouncing on her toes in excitement. "Oh, it's about time."

"Fuck me," Mitch mutters, unfortunately a little too loudly.

Scott's mom— _Connie_ , Scott really needs to think of her as Connie in this particular moment— _Connie_ 's smirk widens. "Not for a while, Mitch, sweetheart. But I'm sure you'll get there eventually."

Scott moans in distress. It's entirely emotional—physically, Scott's buzzing along on a blissful wave of narcotic-induced numbness and post-kiss euphoria—but it stops the teasing when everyone instantly becomes concerned for him. He'll consider it a win.

Scott's mom helps Mitch up off the bed and back into one of the nearby chairs while Nel carefully tucks the blankets back up around Scott's torso and raises the bed rail back up. She's still grinning. Her flinch when she looks him in the eye is barely noticeable.

Scott's suddenly too tired to care. Mitch forgives him. Mitch was never even mad at him. Best of all, Mitch _loves_ him. Scott smiles softly as he listens to Mitch fending off questions—so _many_ maternal questions—with ever decreasing amounts of patience.  Scott eventually loses track of the conversation and lets the extra dose of pain meds and the memory of their first real kiss help him drift off.

**Blink.**


	6. Woke

It's quiet again. Still daylight, but the shadows in his room are at a substantially different angle, so Scott must have been out for a while. He feels cold, despite the blankets still tucked up around him. A single shiver that moves his shoulder a fraction of an inch has him biting back a whimper and reaching for the PCA button.

His dad and Mike are watching something on a laptop. They've pulled the visitors' chairs over to the corner farthest from his bed, presumably to avoid disturbing him, and thus haven't noticed he's awake. He'd like to keep it that way because as much as he appreciates their company and the fact that they all care enough to stay with him, he really doesn't feel like talking to anyone right now. He closes his eyes in case they look up to check on him. Easier to fall asleep again this way too.

He shivers again. At least the pain's less noticeable this time.

Fuck, he wants this to be over.

**Blink**.

 

The night doesn't go well.

Scott wakes up freezing. His headache is back with full force and his shoulder hurts so much he can barely think to find the PCA thing. He rides out the long minutes it takes to work but once the drug finally kicks in, it barely seems to take the edge off and he wants to cry with frustration.

Shit, he can't handle this. He presses the button again. The machine beeps back at him. It hasn't been long enough. He knows that but he can't...he can't handle this. He pushes it again and can feel himself losing it when it just beeps plaintively at him.

He doesn't know if it's his harsh breathing or the fucking beeping that wakes his father, but soon he's standing beside the bed there's a cool hand surrounding the fist Scott has clenched around the traitorous controller.

"Scott? What's wrong? Did you push—"

"Yeah. S'not enough. Hurts." He pushes it once more for good measure, letting his dad hear the beeped refusal. "Dad, please!"

His father reaches for another controller, a smaller, plain looking one with a single grey button. "We'll get a nurse in here." He presses the button and then puts a hand to Scott's good cheek, cupping the jaw Scott's got clenched so tight he's afraid be might crack his own teeth. "Hold on, kiddo. It'll just—God, Scott." His hand moves from his jaw to his forehead. "You're burning up!"

No, he's not. He's cold. Burning up would be warm and warm would feel fantastic right about now.

A tinny alto voice comes in through an intercom behind his head. "Yes, do you need something?"

"My son's pain is a lot worse. And he has a fever."

"Someone will be right there."

Scott gasps out a sob at the thought of even a minor delay. His father is sitting right beside him now, murmuring hushed, soothing words before giving up and resorting to humming quietly. The tune is familiar, but Scott can't place it. It both helps a lot and not at all. His dad takes the PCA controller and lets Scott clutch uselessly at his hand instead.

A nurse comes in, opening and quickly closing his room door behind her. Scott's barely able to pay attention and he completely fails to catch her name even though he's pretty sure she introduces herself. She checks his temperature and gently peels back some of the bandages near his shoulder. She also fiddles with the PCA device and talks to his dad for what seems like forever.

"I'm going to get Dr. Briar to come look at you," she says finally. "And I'll get some additional pain meds approved at the same time. It won't be long, Scott."

_Bullshit,_  Scott thinks. It's already been an eternity.

"Thank you," his dad says. And yeah, maybe that's the more appropriate, polite response. Scott's not in the mood for appropriate or polite, which is a bit out of character for him. Well, the impolite part is out of character. He has to admit he's often inappropriate.

"Why is  _she_  allowed to be in there?" whines a strident voice from the hallway as the nurse opens the door to leave. She pauses in the doorway, clearly taken aback by whatever's going on outside the room.

"She's doing her job," comes a softer but far more threatening tone. Even in Scott's less than ideal state he recognizes the sound of a pissed off Austin. "Hospital security is on the way and I'm sure they've called the police. Do  _not_  make me report you as an immediate threat. You won't like the result."

Incidentally, Scott, Mitch, and Kirstie may or may not have repeatedly debated whether getting to appreciate the sight of Austin when he's angry is worth being freaked out by whatever situation made him angry in the first place. Kirst generally votes no, Mitch almost always votes "hell yes, Daddy", and Scott's response depends almost entirely on how long it's been since he got laid.

"Everyone thinks he's dead!" says the unfamiliar voice. "Let me look for two seconds. If it's really him, I'll just take a picture and—"

"Absolutely not!" Austin snarls, louder now. There's the sound of a short scuffle. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Back up, now!"

Definitely not worth it this time, and not just because Scott can't actually see Austin.

Scott's occasionally scared by fans, more often since this past June. But he's a big, powerful-looking guy. People generally think twice before fucking with him, at least in person. Tweets and Insta comments can get a little weird sometimes, but Kirstie and Mitch have to deal with far more creepy bullshit on a regular basis than he, Kevin, or Avi do.

He doesn't like this. Not at all. He's got Austin, hospital security, apparently the police on their way, and his father all protecting him and he's never felt so vulnerable in his life.

The nurse finally steps out, closing the door quickly and firmly behind her. Scott looks up at his dad who's squeezing his hand, jaw clenched almost as tightly as Scott's.

"I love your fans, Scotty," he says, glaring at the closed door. "I met some of the most amazing people in Dallas last week. But sometimes..."

"Yeah," Scott agrees, grunting as another wave of pain flows over him. He pants, trying to regain his breath. He needs a distraction from both his body and his helplessness. "They think I'm dead?"

Hid dad shakes his head. "Not the smart ones. Not anymore. The hospital released a statement saying you were in serious but non-life-threatening condition after your surgery. Your mom got caught by a reporter on the way out last night. She didn't say much, just confirmed you're expected to fully recover. But there are rumors, everything from you dying when your baby mama went crazy—"

Scott has to snort at that. Hashtag TrueStory.

"—to the Illuminati assassinating you."

Okay, what? "Did I miss the part where the Illuminati hate acapella singers?"

"Conspiracy theories don't make sense, Scott. It's the Internet." His dad squeezes his hand and smiles a bit. "Mitch wanted to tweet a bunch of triangles for some reason, but Esther wouldn't let him."

Of course he did.

Scott idly wonders what @ptxconspiracies is saying, but decides Alexx and their friends have too much tact to be getting in on this.

Fuck, he's exhausted.

His attempts at distracting himself from how he's feeling are failing. He spends a few minutes concentrating on breathing and trying to remember warm things like stage lighting and volleyball on the beach and Mitch's lips on his own.

It doesn't work very well. Thankfully the nurse finally comes back in.

"Okay, Scott. I've got some extra hydromorphone for you and we're going to up your acetaminophen as well, which should also help deal with your fever." She sticks a syringe in a port-thing on his IV tube, and then fiddles with the valve of a small bag hanging beside the main one that Scott hasn't even noticed before. "The doctor will be here in a minute and she's going to try to determine if you're starting an infection or if your fever is caused by something else."

Scott's dad thanks her again. Scott probably should too, but he's run out of energy for even the most basic of conversation.

**Blink.**

 

"—culture results. In the meantime, we've changed his antibiotic and his fever is respon—"

"—ounds terrifying, Rick. I'm so sorry. I, um, I haven't told Mitch yet. He's going to be furious with me, but he  _just_  got to sleep—"

"—ospital's moving forward with trespassing charges. Austin's more than happy to press for assault—"

"—tal signs are still good. We're keeping a close eye on him, but at this point a return to ICU isn't nec—"

"—o the possibility of an intrusion claim. It's less certain since she didn't get into the room, but it was definitely private, offensive, and causing mental anguish, so we could try anyway to make a point. It'd be up to Sco—"

"—eed me forever, but I'll still be here–"

"—ake me up next time! I couldn't give less of a  _fuck_  how much rest y'all think I—"

**Blink**.


	7. Assure

Scott wakes up feeling a lot more human. He still hurts, but it's vague and distant. He's warm and fairly comfortable. It's good, all things considered.

He thinks he's alone until he glances over and sees Mitch curled up beside his bed. It's endearing, although Scott really wishes he'd take better care of himself. The hard plastic visitor's chair has at least been replaced by a small institutional-looking lounger, but it's still not ideal.

Scott debates letting him sleep, but decides if he's going to sleep he should go home and do it in his bed where he at least won't be making himself feel worse instead of better.

God, he can't wait until they can snuggle up together in a real bed.

"Mitch?" No response. "Mitchy?"

Mitch's face scrunches up in that disgruntled way it always does whenever Scott wakes him up too early without a ready supply of Starbucks as penance. This time Mitch follows it up with a long hiss through clenched teeth. "Shit, that hurts," he says, his voice still deep with sleep. Well, deeper than normal. He slowly uncurls himself. "Fucking ow."

Always such a morning person. Although to be fair, Scott's pretty sure it's late evening right now and not actually morning.

Mitch suddenly seems to remember where he is and lifts his head to meet Scott's eyes. "Oh," he says, one side of his mouth curling up into a smile. "Hey. Welcome back, Cassandra. How are you feeling?"

Scott smiles at the nickname before sobering. "Better, I think? Less." He looks Mitch over again. The bags under his eyes are bigger than normal, even accounting for the lack of his usual concealer. Scott knows better than to say he looks tired, at least not directly. "You should go home, Martha.  At least to sleep. That can't be comfortable."

"It's not," Mitch agrees. He slowly leans over to grab a black handbag from the floor. He spends a few seconds rummaging around in it before triumphantly pulling out a prescription pill bottle. "I'm upset with our collective parental units right now. You had a terrible night and no one told me about it until I'd slept myself out."

Scott actually agrees with this decision, but again isn't stupid enough to say so.

Mitch, of course, senses it anyway, if the squinty-eyed look he receives is anything to go by. "I'm sure your folks will eventually override my claim to staying with you and mine will back them up and force me home 'for my own good'," he actually pauses to make lopsided air quotes, pill bottle rattling in his cast-free hand. "But until then I'm a grown-ass woman who can do what she wants."

His pronouncement is spoiled slightly when he promptly spills the water he tries to pour, but Scott does have to admit dealing with cheap plastic hospital pitchers off-handed is probably a nightmare. Still, he manages to get most of it cleaned up, some pills down himself, and another cup held up for Scott with only minor additional mishap and cussing, so maybe Scott can allow that he is, in fact, a grown-ass woman.

"Please look after yourself though, alright?" Scott says, and then takes a soothing sip from the offered straw.

The water is glorious. He'll never bitch about tap water again.

That's a lie.

He takes another sip, and then breaks out his best puppy dog eyes as Mitch sets the cup back down. "I just can't stand to see you hurting even more because you didn't get enough rest."

His sad puppy face usually has a very high success rate, if he does say so himself. Even with Mitch. Sometimes  _especially_  with Mitch. But this time, instead of Mitch capitulating or even just scoffing at him, Mitch's gaze darts back and forth between Scott's left eye and that side of his head.

"Okay, what's wrong with my face? Am I ugly now?" He means it as a joke, but the number of people being weirded out while looking at him is starting to really worry him. Scott's not vain— _Right_ , says the Lindsay-voice inside his head,  _how many shirtless bed selfies do you take in a typical week?_  Okay. So Scott's not like  _Kanye West_  levels of vain, but he has to admit the thought of something seriously wrong with his face freaks him the fuck out. "Wait,  _am_  I ugly now?"

Mitch's gaze snaps back to meet Scott's and his mouth falls open in a breathy 'oh'. He starts pawing around inside his handbag again. "No! No, babe. You're not ugly. It's just..." A little more digging results in him pulling out a compact mirror. "Here."

Scott hesitates, but then pulls the mirror out of Mitch's fingers. He fumbles with opening it for a long moment before Mitch takes it, pops it open easily even off-handed, and gives it back to Scott. Scott takes another deep breath, raises it up to his face and—ow, bad stretch—finally looks.

Oh. Holy shit.

Like Mitch, he's got an assortment of facial cuts, many of which are being held together with a few dark stitches or butterfly bandages. There's also some really impressive bruising from his left temple and all along his cheekbone to about halfway down his jaw. It's swollen, but it's thankfully not enough to make him look like Quasimodo or anything. Just like someone bashed him up the side of the head with a bat.

Or, y'know, a truck.

The truly grotesque part though is his eye, the left half of which looks like it's completely filled with blood.

"Oh my God!"

Mitch's lips and nose scrunch up into a sympathy grimace.

Scott's first instinct is to touch it to see if his fingers come away bloody, but he can't manage it while also holding the mirror. "Ew, that's disgusting." He peers at it in morbid fascination. A horrible thought crosses his mind. "It's not...it's not going to stay like that, is it?"

Mitch, thankfully, shakes his head. "They said it should fade within about a week and a half. The accident caused some of the little blood vessels to burst or something, but they'll heal on their own and the blood will get flushed out over time."

"You asked?"

"I asked. I happen to like your eyes. And I figured you'd want to know."

"You're amazing."

"I know." Mitch tilts his head to the side, studying Scott's face. "Hey, silver lining: the red really makes the blue of your iris pop."

It makes the blue of his iris... "You're also an asshole."

"I know that too," Mitch says proudly.

Scott's getting tired just from holding the mirror up. It's straining sore abdominal muscles, not to mention muscles in his equally sore neck with the awkward way he has to tilt his head to see the left side of his face in a tiny mirror in his right hand. He's also afraid of dropping the thing anywhere near the still-terrifying frame surrounding his shoulder and upper arm because he can't imagine that would go well at all.

But he takes another moment anyway to peer more closely at the cuts now that he's not so distracted by his eye. There are a few doozies, including one about an inch and a half long that traces along the edge of his jawline and is held together with six thin stitches. And maybe glue? It's sort of shiny.

"I've been personally assured," Mitch says, waving vaguely at Scott's face, "that if they scar much they'll look 'ruggedly manly'."

How the hell had that conversation even come up? Scott closes the mirror with a snap. "Someone told you I'll have rugged, manly scars on my face?"

"No," Mitch replies, turning his hand over and picking at the chipped polish on his middle finger with his thumbnail. "Someone told me I'll have rugged, manly scars on  _my_  face."

"Oh." That's actually ten times more hilarious. "I bet that went over well."

"You bet right, hunty." Mitch flicks his nails together twice before looking up at Scott over the rims of non-existent glasses. "I asked her if it looked like 'rugged' or 'manly' had ever been goals in my life."

Scott can't help but laugh, despite the fact that it hurts when he does so. "All while serving face like the queen you are, I hope?"

Mitch shrugs, dropping the diva affectation. He takes the mirror from Scott and tosses it onto the little rolling table nearby. "Honestly, it wasn't my best work. This guy I'm in love with had just been  _cut out of his own car_ and was at that moment being taken up to surgery to try to stop him from dying on me. I was a little distracted."

Oh. Right. "I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Scott. It was just a really long, really shitty day that didn't get better until I actually started to believe you were going to make it, which was right about the time our folks arrived." He sighs, and then leans forward and weaves his fingers through Scott's lax ones. "Everyone was great, really patient and kind. But sometimes you just really need your mom, y'know?"

Scott nods. He does know. His own parents' presence confused him at first—apparently concussed Scott is a fucking idiot—but he's very grateful they're there.

"I should probably forgive them for not waking me up, huh?" Mitch asks.

"Yeah," Scott says, squeezing Mitch's fingers. "You couldn't have helped, Mitchy. They were right to let you sleep."

"Maybe," Mitch agrees begrudgingly. "I'm still staying until they gang up on me again."

Scott's glad. It's probably selfish of him, but he wants Mitch to himself for a little while longer.

**Blink**.


	8. Home

Going home seems like it should be fantastic. It takes a few days before even Scott's optimism thinks it's manageable and several more before the hospital agrees, but once it's decided he's excited and happy. He's  _so_  done with hospital food and hospital smell and hospital tubes and hospital life.

The reality is a tragic comedy.

First, there's the fact that someone leaked his expected discharge date. There's a bunch of fans with signs that read "Get Well Soon, Scott!" and "Everything Will Be Okay" and "Scott Hoying:  _Cracked_ Not Broken!" —that last one is marginally clever, although they clearly haven't seen his x-rays—in front of the hospital as they're preparing to leave.

It's sweet. It really is. Scott totally appreciates all the people supporting him and the sentiment behind them coming. It's just that being gracious and charming while being ushered through a crowd into a car while in substantial pain isn't something he feels up to accomplishing. One badly timed jostle and he'd be screaming and/or bursting into fucking tears and making some poor teenage fan feel horrible for the rest of his, her, or their natural life.

Also there are a few paps slinking around and Scott's vain enough not to want to be spread across a bunch of tabloids looking like this.

So they're whisking him out by wheelchair through a back entrance and into an unmarked van. He kinda feels like a kidnapping victim, except the security team is helping rather than hurting and the drugs slowing his response time and the metal frame restraining his shoulder are all for his own good.

He still hates it.

Second, Mitch and the rest of PTX aren't there. They've each visited him a lot over the past week, along with most of the crew and all sorts of other friends. They've been great at providing much needed entertainment, comfort, illicit snacks, and the not-so-occasional sanity check. But for the trip home it was deemed enough of a security issue dealing with Scott alone. He's never felt quite so much like a celebrity and it well and truly sucks.

He understands, of course. He's been striving for success his whole life and this is part of the price that comes with it. It's just that right now he'd happily trade any fame he'll ever have for the comfort of Mitch helping him through this. Or Kevin. Kev's excellent at providing comfort and Scott's been relying on his quiet wisdom and clearer perspective quite a bit these last few days.

Kevin also happens to be big enough to fucking lean on, which would be really, really nice right now because the three steps from the wheelchair and up into the van nearly kill Scott and that's  _with_  both of his parents helping.

Third, despite having no conscious memory of the accident, Scott's heart rate spikes as soon as the van's engine starts. By the time they pull out of the hospital campus, he's clutching his mother's hand like he'll fall off a cliff if he lets go and by the fourth intersection, he's breathing only because his father is counting out commands. Every inadequately repaired pothole sends a jolt of pain through him and the one time the poor driver—he can't even focus long enough to tell who is driving—has to brake suddenly, Scott almost passes out. The ride feels like it will never end. Yeah, they've taken a bit of a winding route to make sure no one is following them, but it's not enough of a detour that it should feel longer than his last three flights to Asia combined.

Fourth, Scott's been daydreaming about snuggling in bed with Mitch. More than snuggling has also crossed his mind, of course, but he's well aware nothing too interesting will be happening on that front for some time. But he's really been looking forward to them cuddling together in his big comfortable bed.

Which is why when he's half-carried into his room by his father because he's so exhausted he can barely put one foot in front of the other and his mom and all three Grassis are hovering around in concern, he's stupidly surprised that his big, comfortable, beautiful bed has been shoved over towards the wall to make room for a big, comfortable, ugly-as-fuck lazy boy recliner.

He stops a foot past the doorway and just stares at it.

It's... it's blue.

"You okay, Scott?" his mom asks.

"Yeah." Yeah, he's fine. Apart from the fact that his body barely works and also he's a complete idiot.

Seriously, for someone who did so well in school he can be the dumbest person alive. He's been propped sitting almost fully upright the entire time he spent in the hospital. He even knows from experimenting with the bed adjustment doohickey—he got bored fast once he could stay awake for longer than half an hour at a time—that reclining too far back is downright agonizing. He just hadn't made the connection between being unable to lie down in a hospital bed and being unable to lie down in his own. Which, yeah. Did he honestly think being discharged would magically fix that particular problem? It's a good thing Mitch and/or their parents have foresight because God knows how badly tonight would have gone if Scott was the one planning things.

The recliner is still ugly as fuck, though. And it's got an honest-to-God remote control. His dad presses a button and the whole thing slowly  _stands up_  until it's fully upright and almost as tall as Nel.

Scott's still staring at it.

It's like a horribly upholstered robot.

An ugly-as-fuck synthetically upholstered blue robot chair thing.

"The fact that I allowed that into my house should prove I love you, Samantha," Mitch says. He's laughing at Scott. Well, technically he's just smirking, but Scott can tell he's laughing his fucking ass off inside his head.

Still, he has a solid point. For Mitch, consenting to be anywhere in the vicinity of this thing is practically a marriage proposal.

Scott lets his dad help him lean—not sit,  _lean_ —into the recliner, and then the thing very slowly and carefully lowers back down until Scott looks like he's sitting in a regular ugly-as-fuck chair. It seems to take fifty years to accomplish, which is fine because it means Scott's now 75 and the recliner is a perfectly age-appropriate lifestyle choice.

Sarcasm aside, it hurts a lot less than getting into the seat of the car had, so there's that. He's trying to imagine the bewilderment on his own face.

His dad hands him the remote and Scott tentatively tests it, reclining the back just slightly and then raising the leg rest most of the way up. Blue robot chair thing is smooth, he has to give it that.

What even is his life right now?

Once he and the blue monstrosity are settled, his mom tucks a ridiculous number of blankets in around him. Mike futzes with his laptop on a folding table that's been set up nearby so it's angled perfectly for an invalid's viewing pleasure. And Nel promptly brings him a lap tray with berries, grapes, whole grain crackers, orange juice, and some yogurt with fucking  _flaxseed_ sprinkled on top.

Thank you, nurse giving the discharge lecture on opioid use, for letting everyone know far more about his digestive health requirements than he ever dreamed or desired.

Scott doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Mitch, being the asshole that he is, has clearly decided laughing is the way to go. He's not even trying to hide it anymore.

Scott throws a grape at him. It misses, because it's not like he can aim properly what with the robot chair of death and the opioids and all the metal scaffolding. Trying makes him feel better anyway.

Mitch just laughs harder. Eventually, he pauses long enough to bend down—at least one of them is moving better—and give Scott a quasi-repentant kiss, but he still grins every time all four parents jump up to help whenever Scott so much as twitches.

It's going to be a long,  _long_  twelve months.

**Blink.**


	9. Fragile

Scott wakes to gentle fingers smoothing through his hair and the press of warm lips caressing his own. He moans and the mouth on his curves into a smile. It's a gorgeous smile, Scott knows without opening his eyes, but it pulls its owner's lips away from Scott's and that just won't do. He lifts his head and gives chase, pulling the curving bottom lip gently between his teeth and nibbling before soothing away any sting that may have been caused with his tongue.

The fingers in his hair slide down and back, spreading out to support the weight of his head, carefully avoiding putting pressure on his still-tender cheekbone. His head is eased back down onto his pillow, but the lips are still on his. A tongue dips briefly into his mouth, hot and wet and insistent, before it pulls away, taking the lips with it.

Scott opens his eyes to find Mitch's warm brown ones looking back at him, a lopsided smile still gracing that beautiful mouth. He's such a fucking tease, although it's not like Scott hasn't known that for years. Of course, he isn't the only one. Scott tucks his bottom lip under his front teeth, tilting his chin down and peering at Mitch through his eyelashes. It's one of his favorite ways to rile someone up and it surprisingly works perfectly: Mitch's breath hitches and his eyes widen to follow the movement.

"Like what you see, Mitchy?" Scott asks, voice still deep with sleep. He's joking, mostly. And maybe looking for a little reassurance. Mitch swallows, hard

"Yeah." Mitch's fingers trace along Scott's jaw and he smooths his thumb across the seam of Scott's lips, skin catching on the edge of a tooth. He's most definitely not laughing. But then he blinks and refocuses on Scott's eyes, breaking the spell. "Fuck, of course I do. Look at you, you're sexy as hell."

"You're full of shit." Scott's looking anything but sexy these days. His wardrobe consists entirely of sweat pants and whatever wide-armed tanks he can fit over his shoulder accessories. Half his face and torso resemble a mottled painting where the artist ran out of everything but purple, brown, and a sickly chartreuse. And he's moving like a ninety year old tin man who never did find his oil can.

"I'm really not," Mitch says. He's not even smiling anymore. "You okay to get up? You need to eat."

Scott nods and then glances around his room, taking in their surroundings for the first time. He fell asleep basking in a ray of warm afternoon sun, but the colors painted across the sky outside his window suggest it's now quite late in the evening. "Where's Mom?"

"Your dad arrived," Mitch says and yeah, okay. It's Friday night; that makes sense. "He dropped off his suitcase and checked in on you but you were dead to the world. He ended up taking your mom out for dinner and a movie."

Mike and Nel had to return to work soon after Scott's discharge and his dad had little choice but to follow, although he's planning on flying into LA every weekend for the near future. Scott's mom, on the other hand, has taken a leave of absence from her rehab center to stay and look after her wayward son like the saint she is.

She cooks ("It's high in fiber, stop whining and eat it"), she keeps track of where he's supposed to be ("we're going to be late _again_!") and what he's supposed to be taking ("that clindamycin isn't optional, Scott!"), she helps him with even the most basic of hygiene issues ("I'm your mother, what do you think you have that I haven't seen?"), she puts up with his bullshit when it's tolerable ("let's get you a snack, sweetie"), and puts him down hard when it's not ("I'm your mother, you watch your mouth!").

She goes with him to all his appointments. She talks to doctors in healthcare-speak and actually understands what they're saying. She's the one who's there when how badly his tat sleeve is fucked up finally becomes obvious to him. She cries with him because his flowers—his beautiful flowers for his beautiful family, including the brand new larkspurs for her birthday that barely even had time to stop itching—are ragged and stitched and torn and broken. She's basically what's been holding him together when it feels very much like his whole world is falling apart. She and Mitch.

And yet, as much as he loves her, as wonderful as she's being, he's still living with his mom again. He's only been home a week and while he's well aware he can't do anything about it yet, he desperately wants his life back. His band. His music. Anything.

Speaking of his life, while Scott's been thinking, Mitch has pulled himself up from where he was kneeling and has resettled on the edge of Scott's bed, tangling his fingers with Scott's on the arm of the chair. He seems well used to Scott being scattered and distracted, and unlike when Scott's an airheaded mess on a normal day, he's been kind enough not to mention it much since the accident.

"Huh," Scott says, intelligently. He can't believe he slept through his dad's arrival. "That's great. How'd y'all convince her to go?"

"I had to promise her my firstborn if I didn't make sure you were fed, watered, and dosed at the right time and that I'd call her immediately if anything, anything at all, went wrong. So you're not allowed to so much as stub your toe because your mother desperately needs a night out." Mitch squeezes his fingers and smiles. "And I desperately need some time alone with you."

That explains the amazing way Scott woke up. He's totally on board with time alone together. "You know, at this point your firstborn has a good chance of being her grandchild, so I'm not sure that promise is much of a threat even if tonight doesn't go as planned."

Mitch smirks at him, lifting their joined hands and kissing along the backs of Scott's fingers. "Pretty cocky assumption there, Scotty."

Scott hums contentedly, turning his hand to trace his thumb along Mitch's cheekbone as Mitch presses another kiss to his palm. "Am I wrong?"

Mitch huffs a laugh, smirk widening. "Maybe not." He nips at the base of Scott's thumb and then stands up, handing Scott the chair remote. 

Mitch helps him up—Scott's happy enough using the remote to lower the leg rest and raise the back, but he tries to avoid the standing assist feature because it makes him feel ridiculous—and then heads into the kitchen. Scott takes approximately a thousand years limping to the bathroom, peeing, washing up, and taking a moment to appreciate his now healthy-looking eye, still-discolored face, and disastrous-looking hair in the mirror before joining Mitch in the kitchen. He's significantly more maneuverable than he was a week ago, but the pain he's still in and the inconvenience of the shoulder fixation and sling mean it still takes an eternity to accomplish anything at all.

Mitch, meanwhile, is sitting at the kitchen table. He's dished out two servings of a casserole that Scott's mom clearly made for them before she left. There's an opened bottle of water next to Scott's bowl and a little line of pills beside it. Scott wrinkles his nose at them as he pulls out the chair and carefully eases into it, leaning heavily on the table with is good arm to accomplish it.

"Nuh uh," Mitch says, pointing his fork at Scott and then the pills. "I swore I'd take care of you perfectly. Don't even start."

Right. Scott sighs and awkwardly gathers the pills into his palm before tossing them back, chasing them down with a few gulps of water.

He doesn't mind the antibiotics or the ibuprofen but he desperately wants to cut back on the Vicodin. However, his shoulder is still excruciating when he moves or breathes the wrong way and his torso and hip still ache whenever he moves at all.  So the Vicodin is a necessity if he wants to do all the moving he's supposed to and prevent atrophy and infection and all that fun stuff. It's just that he truly loathes the side effects. The stuff makes him drowsy, lightheaded, slow-witted, occasionally nauseous, definitely constipated, and while his doctor believes it's all in his head, he also thinks it might be fucking with his voice. Which, yeah, that's not happening. He's got very little left going for him at this point; he's not tolerating an imperfect voice long-term while he deals with everything else. The Vicodin is being dumped as soon as humanly possible.

Scott's adapted to his new restrictions about as well as can be expected, which is to say not very. He's always been driven. Ambitious. Apart from enjoying—okay, loving—partying with friends and alcohol to unwind, he's always been pathologically averse to wasting time. And yeah, technically time spent healing and resting isn't actually wasted (so sayeth Mitch), but it feels enough like it that Scott's utterly desperate for something productive to do. Writing, arranging, planning, practicing, recording. Fucking anything. Hell, Scott's pretty sure he'd take a full week of back to back press days if he didn't think the effort would kill both him and his career.

Scott picks up his fork and idly stirs the casserole around in his bowl. It's hard not to think about how this week was supposed to go. Right now, Pentatonix should be in Japan, eating a lunch of who knows what, catching some of the other acts scheduled, and preparing for their own performance in a few hours' time. They should have filmed the video for their medley of Perfume songs last week while Scott was busy enduring the car ride home from hell; it probably would have released yesterday or today. They should have been playing around with different takes of their Bad 4 Us Superfruit release, the one they failed to shoot because Scott failed to swerve; they'd been on the way to the studio to record it at the time. In between all of that, they should have flown to Nashville to lay down tracks and shoot a video with _Dolly fucking Parton_ herself...Shit, Scott should probably send Jonathon the world's biggest wine basket or something for ruining that particular managerial masterstroke along with everything else.

"Are you going to eat that or just play with it forever?"

Mitch's concerned gaze is flickering between Scott's food and his face. Scott realizes that while he's been sitting there moping, Mitch is more than halfway done eating, a feat that takes him even longer than usual since he's stuck holding his fork in the wrong hand. Scott finally scoops up a bite of his own and the flavor bursting across his tongue is enough to make him realize just how hungry he is. The one thing he can still do is eat quickly, assuming there's nothing that needs to be cut up, so it's only a matter of moments before he's devoured the whole bowl.

Scott manages to get up, rinse his dish in the sink, and get it into the dishwasher on his own and it's pretty sad how proud he is of successfully accomplishing such a small chore. He finishes his water bottle while leaning against the counter and watches Mitch finish eating. It's always been one of his favorite pastimes, watching Mitch, and he's pleased he doesn't even have to try to avoid letting his gaze settle wherever he wants.

Mitch looks good. He's still got the pink cast, obviously, now covered in signatures and drawings from friends, family, and the occasional fan that catches him in an especially generous mood. Unlike Scott, he's been out and about in public a few times, mostly for caffeine-related purposes. Only the bottom end of the cast is visible, near his fingers; he doesn't need a sling anymore and he's draped in his huge black justin4ever hoodie. Scott's a little envious that Mitch's love of huge sleeves and the relative compactness of the cast leaves him with so many fashion choices; Scott can't even get his cut-off flannels over the metal external fixation thing he's still sporting.

Scott's fractured cheekbone is still surrounded by obvious bruising, but Mitch's facial bruises are now quite subtle, the remnants easily covered with a bit of concealer and foundation, and the cuts are all closed and fading fast. His hair is growing back in too, short stubble covering his entire head. Scott's not sure if it's on purpose or because he's been too lazy to get it shaved. Probably the former, since Mitch has never had a problem prioritizing his appearance and his freshly painted fingernails suggest someone's been helping him when he needs it, probably Nicole. Scott's not quite willing to ask about his hair; the last time they spoke about it, Scott hadn't been sure he liked the new bald look. It's since been growing on him—el oh el—but he still kind of misses the long, side swept undercut. Theoretically, his opinion might hold more sway than it did before and Scott doesn't want to accidentally influence Mitch's decision, especially since it doesn't really matter to him; Mitch will slay any look he wants to have.

The cast has mostly prevented Mitch from helping more with Scott's care. Sure he can reheat a casserole, help him out of a chair, and open pill and water bottles when he's forced to, but helping out with bathing and wound care and driving aren't as easy. Technically the driving part is still an option, but let's face it, Mitch hates driving enough when he's got two good hands and a passenger who isn't currently working his way through a trauma-induced car phobia. Neither of them needs the stress of that right now.

And Scott hasn't told Mitch so, but it's probably for the best that Mitch can't help him more. He's self-aware enough to know that being bored, helpless, and dependent doesn't suit his personality _at all_. His mood these days is unpredictable at best and while his mother is perfectly capable of dealing with his cranky, melodramatic bullshit when necessary, he'd rather not emote all over Mitch any more than he already does, especially when the romantic aspects of their relationship are so new.

New as in that kiss he woke up to is about as far as they've managed to get, romance-wise. Apparently near-death experiences, constant pain, and your mother suddenly living with you are really bad for your sex life. Who knew?

"Sylvia?" Slender fingers snap directly in Scott's face, the flash of susuwatari and deep burgundy nails making him blink in surprise.

Wow. Scott seriously zoned out if he missed Mitch getting up from the table, dumping his dishes, and walking over to him. "Yes, Mickey?"

Mitch snorts, stepping into Scott's space and gently placing his hands on Scott's hips. His touch on the left is especially light. "Who's been ignoring who here, lover boy?"

"But baby," Scott croons, running his good hand up Mitch's arm, letting his palm come to rest on Mitch's shoulder with his thumb stroking his collarbone through the thick hoodie. "My sweet baby."

Mitch rolls his eyes but gamely harmonizes with him for 'You're the one' including a plausible impression of the guitar riff before they both break into giggles. Mitch presses a kiss to Scott's jaw. "God, we're so one of those gross, disgusting couples that no one can stand to be around."

"Mmm." Scott can't help but nuzzle into the side of Mitch's head, enjoying the feel of the post-buzz stubble scraping through his own too-long scruff. "I'm shocked by how not shocked that fact makes me."

Mitch reaches up to brush some of the mess of Scott's hair off his forehead. It's clean, at least. Nicole offered to wash it for him when she visited that morning and he's never been happier to accept a favor in his life. Seriously, the scalp massage she gave him was the best thing he's ever felt outside of sex. But he's well aware that clean or not, his hair is currently an uncontrolled, disastrous mop, so he has no idea why Mitch is even trying to tame it. "How are you feeling?" Mitch asks.

Honestly? Like he needs to sit down. Apparently leaning against a counter for three minutes is exhausting. "Kinda tired, actually."

Mitch nods. "I was thinking maybe we could cuddle and watch a movie? Can't exactly have a wine night," —reason number fifty three to get off the damn Vicodin— "but we could fake it."

God, yes. "That sounds amazing."

"Good," Mitch steps back and grabs Scott's hand, leading him slowly out of the kitchen. It's a bit awkward, trailing after Mitch with their right hands clasped together, but as usual, Scott can't help but follow in his wake.

Mitch leads them into his own room and Scott's amused to see he's piled a shitload of pillows against his headboard, mostly on Scott's side. Well, the side that will be Scott's once they actually manage to start sleeping together, either literally or figuratively. Preferably both. It's the side that Scott will have to be on for another few months, but also the side they've always naturally gravitated to when they're together; Scott on Mitch's left, Mitch on Scott's right.

Anyway, the point is that someone's been planning things in advance.

"Why do I feel like I'm about to be seduced?" Scott asks, not that he's objecting.

"I wouldn't say _seduced_ ," Mitch replies, tugging him into the bedroom and over to the bed. He turns them around, gently pulling him into a light kiss before letting Scott hang onto his arm and not-so-gracefully lower himself down so he's sitting on the edge of the bed. "I'm saving _seducing_ for later. Right now I'm thinking more 'close cuddling of the non-platonic kind.'"

"I can get behind that." Scott says, spreading his knees so he can pull Mitch in between them. Then he snorts because he knows exactly how Mitch is going to—

" _Yeah_ you can." Mitch's sexy pout and exaggerated leer are also predictable, but while the words and tone and even Scott's fingers curving over a canted hip are nothing new between them, it really sinks in for the first time that Mitch _means it_. He literally means it. Not right now, obviously, because as optimistic as Scott generally is he's not delusional. But it finally fully hits him that he's going to get to fuck Mitch as soon as he's physically capable of it.

The thought has him groaning and tightening his grip on Mitch's hip as he buries his face in Mitch's stomach.

Mitch's hands flutter aimlessly for a moment before his casted left comes to rest on Scott's good shoulder and his right slides up to cradle the back of Scott's head. "Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

"I'm fine," Scott murmurs into Mitch's soft hoodie. "Just getting used to not holding back the intent behind our flirting."

Mitch's hand smooths up the back of Scott's head and tightens in his hair. "Can't wait until we don't have to hold anything back."

Fuck, no kidding. "Yeah."

After another moment, Mitch pulls away to help Scott lie back against the pillows, lifting his legs onto the bed for him in the process. Scott appreciates it; he could probably have managed to get his legs situated on his own, but the bruising around his abs on his left side make movements like that painful and that isn't the mood either of them are hoping for here.

Once Scott's in a reasonably relaxed and comfortable position, Mitch settles his MacBook onto Scott's lap and then crawls into the bed from the other side. They spend a few moments bickering over what to watch before deciding on Ocean's Eleven; humorous and with enough eye candy to be entertaining even if they're not paying much attention but not so funny that Scott will hurt himself laughing **.** Soon Mitch is curled on his side, tucked under Scott's arm with his head on Scott's shoulder, left arm bent up across his stomach to keep his cast out of the way and right hand resting gently on Scott's stomach.

They do start watching the movie but honestly Scott's far more focused on the feel of Mitch's body snug against his own than on George Clooney's plans to rob the Bellagio. This isn't new for them either; they cuddle together watching videos all the time without any regard for personal space. What is new is the way Mitch's fingers are gliding over the edges and curves of Scott's torso, tracing along the bottom edge of his tank before dipping under it to smooth a palm up the side of his ribcage and over his chest.

Scott can't help but slide his hand up Mitch's back and press between his shoulder blades, pulling him closer. He breathes in the scent of Mitch's shampoo and enjoys the prickle of stubble on his lips as he presses a kiss to the top of Mitch's head. Mitch hums and lifts his head, all pretense of watching the movie forgotten. His breath ghosts over Scott's skin as he shifts up onto his elbow, the new position giving him better access which he flagrantly abuses with a line of butterfly kisses over Scott's bare shoulder, across the strap of his sling, and down to his collarbone.

Scott's breath catches and Mitch smirks up at him, mischievous brown eyes twinkling through long black lashes. The look alone is enough for a soft whimper to escape Scott's throat, which only serves to widen Mitch's smirk. He wets his lips, still staring at Scott, and gently bites the bottom one. It's completely unfair; that's _Scott's_ favorite move being used against him. The whimper turns into a low growl and Scott ducks his head so he can bite the offending lip himself.

"God," Mitch groans into Scott's mouth, not protesting in the slightest. "The things I want you to do to me."

_Fuck_. Okay, yes, Scott feels the same way, although that's not the phrasing he expected. "Not what you want to do to me?"

"Oh, I have a lot of good ideas there too," Mitch says, in between nips and licks into Scott's mouth. Scott can feel his lips curve into another smile. "And I plan on exploring every one of them. But you know me.  I've mostly fantasized about being under you while you demonstrate that 'leader type personality' of yours."

Scott's startled laugh—ow—breaks their lips apart. That shady fucker. "You're never going to stop dragging me for that, are you?"

"For coming up with the world's lamest euphemism because you were too chickenshit to use the word 'dominant' in a video? Why would I ever stop dragging you?"

Scott presses his lips to Mitch's forehead. "The way Connor edited the segment, it looks like you came up with it. Air quotes and all."

"I'd noticed." Mitch's nose wrinkles in annoyance. "And yet we both know the truth. You wouldn't even use it as an adjective, never mind a noun."

"When have I ever specifically labelled myself as anything?" Scott asks, truly curious. He hasn't hidden his sexuality since he was eighteen years old. But apart from letting his family and closest friends know, he's never felt the need to make a big, splashy announcement either. He respects and appreciates those who do and all the arguments for doing so, but at the same time the whole thing smacks of catering to society's heteronormativity, reinforcing the belief that people are straight until they tell you otherwise.

He's always been more than happy to wave off invasive questions with an implicit 'Fuck you, I am who I am and I'll date who I like' and figures his more specific preferences in bed should follow the same pattern. 

Plus, watching the never-ending arguments about his exact orientation, regardless of how obvious he's been about it, is like a train wreck he can't look away from. He's always kinda loved throwing the fandom into disarray; he considers it his third-best talent, right after music and that thing he can do with his tongue.

"Hmm, solid point," Mitch says, lips teasing over the line of Scott's jaw. "She's elusive. She loves the drama."

Scott snorts and presses his hand into Mitch's back again, encouraging him closer. "She loves the kissing."

"That's convenient." Mitch's teeth latch onto Scott's earlobe, his tongue playing with the stud he finds there. "I'm all for more kissing."

Soon enough the laptop has been shoved out of the way and Mitch is gently cradling the side of Scott's face, his careful avoidance of his bruises a sharp juxtaposition to how far down Scott's throat his tongue is. It's hot and wet and filthy and Scott desperately wants to roll them over and press his full weight into this irresistible boy, to hold him down, press him into the mattress, and devour him. He can't though, so he makes do with a firm hold on the back of Mitch's neck, keeping him exactly where he wants him, and giving as good as he gets with his lips, teeth, and tongue.

Mitch can't climb on top of him either; Scott's bad arm is held across his chest in a sling and his healing torso and hip wouldn't tolerate the pressure anyway. Instead, he drapes his leg over Scott's nearest one, bringing their bodies that much closer. The angle gives Mitch more leverage, allows the kiss to grow that much more heated.

It also makes Scott aware of Mitch's growing erection, pressed tight against Scott's hip, and that fact has Scott groaning into their kiss once more. Mitch starts to rock into him, subtly at first but then with growing urgency. He doesn't seem to notice, his hips working purely on instinct, but Scott's fucking living for it. He'd expect it to hurt. Not the press of Mitch's hips themselves; it's his undamaged side, after all. But the way the movement is making the mattress rhythmically dip should be aggravating his shoulder, yet so far he's not bothered at all. Or, well, he's definitely bothered, but not in any negative sort of way.

It's hot as fuck.

Scott smooths his hand down Mitch's body, reveling in the feel of tight muscles undulating against him. He pauses momentarily at the small of his back, teasing his fingers in a soft circle, before reaching lower, grateful his long arm allows him to rest his hand on the swell of Mitch's ass. He can't help but grab a handful and pull him closer still.

He means it as encouragement, but the second he does so Mitch's hips freeze and he wrenches his mouth away from Scott's with a gasp.

"Shit! I'm hurting you!" He pulls back, brown eyes wide and searching, an appalled expression on his beautiful face. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

"No, Mitchy. S'good." Scott slides the offending hand up Mitch's body to his neck again so he can try and pull those lips back to his. "It doesn't hurt. You're so sexy, please don't stop."

But Mitch is shaking his head. "I've seen you wince when someone bumps against your chair while you're in it." His hand slides away from Scott's jaw, tracing over the lips Scott knows are swollen before coming to rest on his chest.  His hand brushes Scott's fingers peeking out of the end of his sling and Scott curls them around Mitch's as best he can. "I couldn't live with myself if I hurt you, even if you don't feel it right away."

Scott has to struggle to hold back a bitchy retort about not being a child because a) Mitch obviously doesn't think of him as a child, and b) it's not Mitch's fault that Scott's so very done with not being able to do anything. He can't quite keep all traces of petulance out of his voice, but it does come out more polite than his original reaction at least. "I want to make you feel good."

Mitch's expression softens and he bends forward to press a kiss to Scott's lips. "I'm really, _really_ not against that. I just think maybe me humping your leg can wait for another day."

That makes Scott smile. "What if _I_ can't wait?"

Mitch smirks at him, even as his fingers squeeze Scott's. "Well, you're a good boy. I'm sure we can work something out."

And then Mitch is moving, slinking slowly down the bed. His fingers let go of Scott's and slide across his pectoral muscle, squeezing with his palm as his thumb slips under the side of Scott's tank to tease at his nipple. His lips soon follow and Scott gasps and whimpers and struggles to hold himself still. It's so hard to stay passive, to lie back and let Mitch play with him. Scott's not against it; he's not always the more active participant in bed, but it's so different to how he's always imagined his first time with Mitch, on those occasions where he's allowed himself to think of being with Mitch at all, that he's having trouble adjusting and restraining himself.

However, the threat of excruciating pain is a great motivator for lying back and accepting his fate. Not that having Mitch's gorgeous lips wrapped around him is going to be any sort of hardship.

Mitch has worked his way down, fingers lightly teasing across Scott's abs, skirting but not avoiding Scott's sensitive left side. His breath is warm where his mouth hovers above Scott's naval. Scott can still feel Mitch, who's practically straddling Scott's right leg, pressed hot and hard just above Scott's knee.

It's not until Mitch's fingers trail over his waistband and below that Scott realizes that he himself _isn't_ hard. It's a surprise, something he hadn't considered, because honestly what the fuck? He gasps just as Mitch's hand closes over him.

"Wait!"

Mitch freezes, hand cupping Scott through his sweats. He looks up, brown eyes huge and contrite and most definitely confused. "Are you okay? I thought..." Scott can see the instant Mitch realizes the issue. "Oh!"

Yeah. Oh.

This has never, _ever_ happened to Scott before. So how the hell does it happen when he's got Mitch hovering above him, when those lips and that mouth and the whole damn perfect package are being offered on a beautiful silver platter? When he's finally got the boy he's adored since he was ten and wanted since he belatedly grew a brain at 19? How is this the moment his dick decides it's not cooperating? Scott doesn't know whether to laugh hysterically or die of humiliation.

The burning flush he can feel rising in his cheeks suggests he's leaning towards humiliation.

Mitch's hand moves from Scott's traitorous dick to his thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth soothingly. "It's okay."

Fuck. Scott turns his head, unable to even maintain eye contact. "Don't."

"No, babe. Please. It's so okay."

"How?" And shit, Scott can feel tears prickling in his eyes to match the red of his cheeks. "How is this okay? I don't...Please don't take it personally." Scott knows that despite Mitch's confident and sometimes downright cocky attitude, he often takes even unintentional insults and cruelty to heart. They've always been able to joke and tease each other that they're ugly or fat or out of shape, but Scott's also always been very careful to reassure Mitch that he's perfect in order to avoid triggering his very real insecurities. Now it's Scott's own damn body doing the insulting and it couldn't be further from how Scott himself actually feels. An 'it's not you, it's me' seems woefully inadequate.

"Oh Scotty," Mitch says. He presses a gentle, barely there kiss to Scott's hip before dragging himself back up his side to be closer to eye level. "Your body has been through so much; it's still working so hard to fix itself. It's no wonder it's not interested in sex right now."

Mitch is making sense and Scott probably should have thought of it. It's just that he's always prided himself on how much he loves sex and how pleased his partners have always seemed to be and to have that suddenly become unreliable fucking sucks. It probably says something less than complimentary about him that his fragile masc ego is so diminished by something so understandable and out of his control. And yet it is. He's grateful that Mitch, usually so vocal when stupid boys are having stupidly overblown boy reactions to things, is being quiet and understanding instead.

Still, he can't quite prevent a sulky " _I'm_ fucking interested," from coming out.

"Well, obviously. When are you not?" Mitch snuggles back into his side, cast propped against his shoulder, other hand resting on Scott's chest. "If having something else to blame is helpful for your _ego_ ," —okay, so he's _mostly_ quiet and understanding— "it could also be a side effect of your painkillers. I did a bit of reading and apparently opioids can 'decrease testosterone and impair sexual function'. So there's that."

What the ever loving fuck? _That_ was not in the pharmacy pamphlet. "...Are you kidding me?"

Mitch smiles, clearly aware that Scott's both pissed and elated with this news. "Usually it takes longer than you've been on them, but apparently some people can be affected relatively early."

Scott doesn't even care that Mitch is totally throwing him a bone. Heh, bone. What matters is that Mitch is intentionally trying to make him feel better and making this entire situation less awful because of it. And he read up on Scott's medications just in case he needed to know something like this. "You're amazing."

"Of course I am, hunty." Mitch leans in and teases Scott's lips with several soft kisses before pulling away again. "So I'm going to go, uh, do a thing. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Wait. Scott's so comfortable like this. Honestly he could use some more cuddling as consolation for the whole thing. Why would Mitch— Oh, right. That problem that's still pressed against Scott's hip. "Stay."

Mitch tilts his head to the side and gives Scott that look that always seems to suggest he can't believe they're even friends because Scott is so very stupid. Amusingly, Scott often gets the exact same expression from Wyatt.

"I'm not going to be uncomfortable all evening just because you can't go five minutes without me."

Ah. Well that explains the look.

"No," Scott says. "I meant do it here. Let me help."

Mitch's breath hitches—that's twice in one night; Scott's pretty proud of himself—and his eyes dart from Scott's own down to his mouth. He licks his lips, probably subconsciously, and there's absolutely no doubt what he's thinking. And honestly, it's Scott's first choice too.  As eager as he is to feel Mitch's mouth on his cock, he's equally eager to taste Mitch's. Fuck, his mouth is watering just thinking about it.

The problem is that there's no possible way to make it happen right now, no matter how willing Scott is. There's literally no position he can think of that won't hurt like hell in one way or another.

Mitch knows that, of course. Probably figured it out faster than Scott did. "I want your hand," he says, licking his lips. "I've been dreaming about your big hands all over me for years."

Scott's instantly struck by an image of a very naked Mitch sprawled out on this bed, relaxing and writhing in turns as Scott explores, massages, tickles, caresses, and licks every inch of him. They'll get to that, he promises himself. It may take a while but it'll happen.

"Yeah." He shrugs to nudge Mitch's head off his shoulder so he can free his arm. He catches Mitch's jaw in his palm and smooths his thumb over his bottom lip. Mitch nips at it and pulls out his most seductive expression, the one he saves for half-drunken selfies designed to drive their fans into a quivering frenzy. "Pull yourself out for me." Scott's voice comes out deep and raspy, exactly how he'd have planned it if forethought was actually on his radar right now.

It seems to work for Mitch, because there's a soft whine from the back of his throat as he hurriedly pops the snap of his jeans and pushes them down his thighs, out of the way along with his briefs. His dark red, very tight briefs.

_Fuck._

Mitch's cock, it turns out, is as gorgeous as the rest of him. Long with a slight curve, not quite as thick as Scott's own but more than ample enough in its own right. Scott's seen Mitch naked before, they've skinny dipped together, caught sight of each other while rushing around in shared hotel rooms, trying to get ready before Esther kills them. Scott's even seen him somewhat hard once in the dressing room of a play in Scott's sophomore year of high school. He hadn't stared then, only really recalls it at all because he remembers wondering if Mitch found the senior playing the female lead hot or if maybe he liked the male one as much as Scott was ashamed to admit to himself that _he_ did. 

But this is the first time he's seen Mitch hard for _him_. He's definitely staring now.

It's exhilarating and at the same time frustrating as hell because Scott's body is still not on board despite how fucking fantastic this whole situation is. Mitch, lying beside him, eyes wide, cock out, hand settling on Scott's thigh, waiting breathlessly for Scott to get him off.

Scott runs his hand down Mitch's torso and enjoys the jut of his sharp hipbone before grasping his cock. He gathers pre-come into his palm and smooths it down Mitch's shaft as makeshift lube. He tries to start slowly and build it up, but Mitch is impatient. He's clearly trying to hold still, yet his hips are twitching at a much faster rate than Scott's hand. His own hand leaves Scott's thigh and surrounds Scott's, trying to encourage more speed.

"Please. Please, Scott. Fuck. So good."

It's awkward. They can't get the angle right; Scott's reach is long but his leverage is shit, and Mitch is working off-handed. But oh God, Mitch's stuttering gasps, hot against Scott's ear, are driving him insane. Scott turns his head to rest their cheeks together, breathing almost as heavily as Mitch.

It doesn't take long from there. A tightening of Scott's hand and a final twist of his wrist have Mitch coming with a high-pitched whimper, Scott's name muffled against his neck. Scott works him through it, pulling more amazing noises out of him as he splashes across Scott's hip and thigh.

Scott presses kisses to Mitch's jawline and under his ear, about all he can reach, while he waits for Mitch's breathing to slow and his heartrate to calm down. Scott's own heart is beating rapidly too. He pulls back to get his first good look at a freshly post-orgasmic Mitch.

There's a thin sheen of sweat coating his face, a light flush spread across his cheeks. His lips are glistening and pink and perfect, slightly swollen from their kissing. His brown eyes blink open, and he smiles softly up at Scott. He's unbelievably beautiful, more so than Scott's ever seen him, a feat he hadn't thought possible.

Scott wants to kiss him more than anything and when he tilts his head as far as he can reach, Mitch meets him halfway. It's deep and sensual, no longer as heated but somehow just as sexy.

Eventually, Mitch pulls away. He lifts his hand, presumably to caress Scott's face, but then grimaces in disgust when he realizes it's coated in come. "Okay, ew."

Scott huffs a laugh. He looks down at himself, and while he may not have come in his pants, mores the pity, Mitch managed to ruin them anyway. "Well, at least one of us made a mess."

Mitch smirks. "Love getting you dirty."

"Love you getting me dirty." Scott has to kiss him again, then reaches over to wipe his own gross hand on Mitch's shirt, ignoring his indignant protest. "You're going to have to help me clean up."

"Well, no shit, Sabrina." Mitch rolls his eyes but his tone has no heat. He's still blissed out; it's a fucking fabulous look on him. He gets up slowly, careful not to move the bed too much, and then takes a long moment to hike up his pants mostly one-handed before disappearing into the bathroom. He comes back within a couple of minutes, wet wipes in hand. Most of the mess comes off easily enough, but Scott's sweats are definitely stained. He's going to have to change if they don't want to deal with awkward questions or worse, horrible teasing in the morning when his mom helps him get dressed.

It's a bit of a production, hoisting Scott off the bed. He's exhausted at this point, which is ridiculous because he's been awake for maybe two hours altogether. Once he manages to get upright he decides he's not moving again tonight. Mitch gamely leads him back to his own room, getting out a new pair of sweats and kneeling at Scott's feet to help him change into them.

Scott's dick doesn't even twitch. Mitch is literally kneeling in front of him and nothing. Nada. He decides he hates Vicodin about a thousand times more than he did when he just thought it was messing with his vocal cords, regardless of any other possible causes, but at the same time he has to give it credit because there's no way he'd have been able to accomplish even a hand job for Mitch on just the over the counter analgesics he's using in the background.

"Mom's going to notice the color change," Scott says as he steps out of the soiled black sweats and into the new grey ones.

"I'm not getting up for another pair," Mitch replies, pulling the sweats up his legs for him. He presses one last kiss to Scott's stomach before peering up at him. "And I sincerely doubt she'll notice anything."

Mitch helps Scott into the blue monstrosity and gives him another deep kiss before disappearing to finish cleaning up. Scott waits for him for a while but whatever he's doing, he certainly seems to be taking his time. Scott's eyelids are getting progressively heavier, and eventually he gives up. Mitch will just have to wake him up if he has anything else planned.

All in all, it was a good night. Scott could get used to this. Well, parts of it.

**Blink.**   
  
  


"The movie was great. We had a nice time," Scott's mom's voice is saying from the vicinity of the bedroom door. It's pretty dark. Scott doesn't open his eyes but he assumes the only light is spilling in from the hallway behind his mother. "Thanks for taking care of him. It was so good to get out." There's a pause and then she's closer. A hand brushes some hair away from Scott's forehead. "Is he wearing different pants?"

"Uh," Mitch says, clearly taken aback. He really shouldn't have doubted Scott's knowledge of his mother's observational skills or her cat-like night vision; Scott had to deal with both of them all through high school and it was a _challenge_ , to say the least. "Well, we had dinner and I spilled all over him, so he had to change."

Shit. Mitch isn't even lying.

"Oh my goodness, was it still hot?" his mom asks.

Yes. Yes, it was. Scott has to bite the inside of his cheek so he doesn't die laughing and he can feel the start of a blush rising in his cheeks. He's glad the light is off.

"Kind of?" Mitch, thankfully, has always been the better actress. Although his voice right now is definitely higher pitched than normal; he's _so_ trying not to laugh. "He was fine, though. No harm done. And the casserole was delicious."

"I'm glad you boys managed to eat." She brushes a kiss to Scott's forehead. "He took all his meds?"

"Yes ma'am."

Suck up.

"Good. Well, I'll let you get some sleep, Mitch." Her voice travels around Scott's chair and there's a rustling sound, which Scott interprets as his mom kissing Mitch's forehead too. "You sure you don't mind us using your room?"

"Nope. I'm fine sleeping here. I even changed my sheets for y'all while you were gone."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that," says Scott's dad, sounding like he's standing in the doorway.

Yeah. Yeah, he really did.

"Goodnight, Connie, Rick," Mitch says, way too brightly to Scott's ears.

Luckily, his parents don't know Mitch's voice anywhere near as well as Scott does. Still, there's a slight pause before Scott's mom says, "Goodnight. Wake one of us up if either of y'all need anything requiring two good hands."

"I will."

The door closes and there's a few moments of silence as his parents retreat across the hall to Mitch's room.

Then "I fucking hate you right now," comes from the direction of Scott's bed.

"No you don't," Scott says, holding back a laugh purely out of self-preservation. Fuck, he loves him.

There's a loud sigh. "No, I don't."

**Blink.**


	10. Cancel

Scott's day starts off badly. He's been having nightmares; sometimes they're anxiety dreams of what might happen, sometimes scattered memories of what actually happened, and sometimes altered versions of what _could_ have happened. This time he dreams that the truck crashes far harder into the other side of the car, leaving him with fewer injuries but crushing Mitch outright. Scott's hysterically begging two sympathetic but helpless paramedics to save a very obviously already dead Mitch when he mercifully wakes up.

_Fuck._

His heart is racing and he's dragging air in around the tears streaming down his face and the snot filling his sinuses. Mitch, thankfully, is still asleep, curled towards him and cuddling his bicep like a teddy bear. Scott has no idea how he managed to stay quiet enough not to wake him, but he's grateful. Mitch doesn't need to know how ridiculous Scott's subconscious still is.

He spends a few minutes calming himself and, once his nose clears a bit, breathing in the scent of a warm, comfortable, and most importantly alive Mitch. He presses a few light kisses and sappy, grateful whispers into Mitch's short hair before gently extricating himself. That takes him a while under the circumstances, but he's starting to get better at compensating for his arm so it's manageable.

He fumbles his way through making coffee and taking his anti-inflammatory and a Tylenol 3—fucking good riddance, Vicodin—before going out to sit on the balcony. He's never really been one for quiet contemplation, but since he can't lose himself with a keyboard right now and more sleep is out of the question, it's something else he's learning to compensate for. The city is beautiful this early, with the sun just starting to hint at dawn. Not peaceful—it's still LA—but quieter.

Honestly, as horrible as the death dreams are and as miserable as he feels after them, they're the easiest to recover from; he can calm himself with Mitch's warm, living presence. It's the ones where Scott never fully recovers, where pain and immobility prevent him from performing and the band falls apart along with his music career that really get to him long-term. It's harder to soothe his anxiety over an uncertain future when he genuinely doesn't know what will happen.

He'd far rather have a live, healthy Mitch than any of the rest of it, of course he would, but that fact doesn't entirely help when he's watching the sun rise instead of snuggling in bed with him because his brain won't shut off his doubts and let him fucking relax.

The day starts to look significantly better once his mom is up and they head for his early morning doctor's appointment. He doesn't at all enjoy the shoulder manipulation—his doctor is clearly a sadist of the unfun variety—but he receives some much-needed confirmation that everything looks good for the external fixation to come off the following week. Not only will that make Scott's life immediately better (fuck, real showers and actual clothing and people staring at him _only_ because they think he might be famous), but it also means he'll be able to start real physiotherapy, the kind intended to build him back up rather than just keep him from making everything worse. He'll be able to finally make real progress. He leaves the doctor's office in high spirits and with referrals to a handful of PTs in the area that might suit him, which his mom promptly confiscates so she can look into each one personally.

The news couldn't come at a better time. There's a meeting with RCA that afternoon and Scott's looking forward to reassuring the label that he'll be good to go for tour in just under six weeks, albeit with some substantial workarounds. He's got a notebook full of ideas on how the show can be adapted to compensate and he just needs feedback from the band and production team on which ones are actually workable and what he hasn't considered.

Mitch is happy with Scott's news, but like he is every time Scott brings it up, he's far more hesitant about tour. He points again out that maybe they should wait to see what the label has to say and work out more logistics before getting too excited, but Scott's already ridiculously past excited. Obviously the team will have to get in on the logistics, but he needs this. He needs something to work for. It's one of the main reasons he's still getting up every morning.

It'll be fine. What's RCA going to say? 'Please, we'd sincerely like to lose another shit-ton of money by cancelling your mostly sold-out American leg along with the Asia and Oceania ones you're currently missing'? Doubtful.

When his mom goes out for a few hours to herself, he and Mitch cuddle up on the couch. Technically they're watching TV, however alone time is rare and they're making out long before they even settle on a channel. It's meant to be idle, a little fun while they kill some time, but Scott's dick finally— _finally_ —remembers what it's there for and Mitch is on his knees within ten seconds of discovering that fact, sucking him down like he's starving for it. Apparently he's really been looking forward to this moment and Scott's always fully supportive of Mitch's endeavors.

Really, really supportive. Mmmm, yes.

Scott can't make up his mind whether to spread his hand wide on the back of Mitch's head to guide an ideal rhythm or trace his fingers around Mitch's mouth and jaw and just appreciate that it's _his_ cock disappearing between those perfect lips and filling those hollow cheeks. He groans and settles for letting his hand flutter aimlessly between both options while also intermittently going lax and just taking whatever Mitch wants to give him.

God, he's wanted this for years and he can't quite process the fact that it's actually happening. And fuck, the way Mitch is looking up at him through his lashes is _doing things_ for him that he's never quite felt before and he's really looking forward to a lifetime of figuring out exactly what does it for each of them.

It takes a while for Scott to come and it's not the best orgasm he's ever had; his libido clearly isn't quite back to normal regardless of Mitch's oral talents, which—spoiler—are exquisite. But it's the first time he's come in a month and the first time Mitch has ever made him do so—well, the first time Mitch has ever _directly_ made him do so— so regardless of quality it's done wonders for his mood and confidence and self-esteem.

Scott's looking forward to when he can pay Mitch back for his patience, understanding, and general fuckability with something more impressive than a hand job. He's saving up ideas and based on Mitch's response to the few he's shared during said hand jobs, voice as low and dirty as he can manage, they're going to have a really, really good time.

Mitch, laying face-up across Scott's lap with his shirt rucked up to his nipples and his pants around his knees so Scott can reach whatever writhing feature he likes, reacts to today's whispered fantasy—Scott crowding him into the bathroom on the tour bus and quieting his whimpers and moans with one of those ball gags he's so into while fucking him up against the mirror so they can both watch—by coming spectacularly before Scott even finishes the sentence.

Yep, self-esteem is definitely on the rise. Things are looking up. Ideas are fleshing out. Superfruit video concepts like 69 Not-So-Subtle Innuendos are being formulated.

Scott also makes a mental note to remember this position because he thinks it might be even more fun two-handed and with a lot of lube.

They clean themselves up in the bathroom and after Mitch finishes making himself look even more perfect, he offers to try to cover Scott's now mostly faded bruises. Scott's absolutely on board with presenting a whole look-how-much-better-I'm-doing package at their meeting, so he cheerfully agrees.

Sitting on a closed toilet and having Mitch poke and prod at his face is an interesting experience. Mitch keeps manhandling him by the jaw, tilting his head back and forth to get the lighting just right on his cheek.

"You're lucky I had the foresight to ask Nicole what shade I should get for you. This would look ridiculous with my stuff," Mitch says, tongue peeking out a bit as he concentrates.

Mostly to distract himself from thinking about Mitch's tongue and his new experience thereof, Scott reaches over and grabs the little foundation bottle, turning it over and ignoring the exasperated growl his movement incites. "This looks like the same brand she uses but it's not the same number."

"Of course not. You've been out in the sun for like half an hour in the last month." Mitch replies. He forcibly tilts Scott's face back where he wants it and resumes blending just to the left of his eye socket. "But it turns out they actually _do_ make a shade lighter than your usual. Maybe for the vampire market?"

Scott lets his mouth drop open in semi-offended pseudo-shock. "Wow. Speaking of shade..."

"Jesus Christ, would you fucking hold still?"

By the time his mom returns, they're snuggled back together on the couch, dozing and watching SpongeBob. She hands them each some Starbucks—she's a fucking saint even when she's supposed to be taking a break—and then herds them into the car to drive them to RCA's main office.

Scott spends the ride thumbing through his notes—an actual physical notebook since it's currently easier for him to write than type—to remind himself of what he's come up with. Some pages are full, complete rearrangement notations to simplify his parts; he needs to talk to Ben and the band, but most of them should be workable without sacrificing too much appeal. There are also a couple of reworked set lists to minimize his leads. Other pages just have questions to ask specific people. For example, he desperately needs Sooner and Lindsey's input on how to rework the production and choreo.

There are other filled pages, ones with new melodies and lyrics that Scott can't seem to help but write. He can't fucking wait until he can flesh them out, but he needs to be able to play to make that happen; he's never been as good when he use's a computer for the first full draft of a song rather than his keyboard. And yeah, technically, he could ask for help from any one of the musical geniuses he calls friends. But these songs somehow feel too personal, like he can only present them when they're fully shaped, if ever.

In any case, he can't wait to get started working on making tour happen. Make some real progress. Get his life and everyone's careers back on track. He's distracted enough by everything that he forgets to be anxious in the car until about ten seconds after they park, which is actually hella progress for him so yay.

The receptionist greets them warmly when they arrive, seeming genuinely happy to see Scott again. She waves them through to one of the larger meeting rooms just a few doors away and Scott blows her a kiss and smirks at Mitch's eye roll.

But once they get there, Scott has to pause in the doorway. The people in the room aren't quite who he was expecting. Neither Ben nor Lindsey are there. Instead, there are two extra suits from RCA, one of whom is a mid-level exec Scott thinks is named Steven and the other he's never seen before.

Steven is a stereotypical industry rep: white with a too-even-to-be-natural tan, indeterminately young but not too young, handsome but not intimidating, and with an inoffensive haircut and bland personality. The new guy is black, maybe fifty, with an expensive suit and an average-looking face set off by salt and pepper hair at his temples that really works for him.

What's making Scott nervous is that everything about New Guy screams _lawyer._

"Scott," Steven says, smiling a too-wide industry smile. "It's great to see you. How are you feeling?"

Weirded the fuck out, thanks. You? "Much better, thank you."

Mitch's hand on his lower back gets him moving toward the table. Meghan, their publicist, gets up and gives him a gentle hug—she's the only one of their regular team he hasn't seen at least a few times since the accident—and then he's pulling out a chair beside Kirstie and sitting down with Mitch on his other side. Kirstin, Kevin, Avi, Esther, and their manager Jonathon all smile warmly at him. New Guy nods a polite but impersonal greeting and introduces himself as James Something-Or-Other, who is indeed from the legal department.

Right. Okay. Great.

Everyone stares at each other. Mitch settles a comforting hand on Scott's thigh under the table, which at least makes him physically feel a bit better even if his head is still spinning through possibilities, each more concerning than the last.

"So," Meghan says just a bit too late to avoid being awkward. "We need to discuss how we're going to move forward."

Yep. 'Moving forward' was indeed the subject line on the email requesting the meeting. Scott's beginning to suspect his ideas on moving forward aren't the same as RCA's.

"We think it would be best to cancel the final leg of tour," Steven says. And just like that, Scott goes from nervous to nauseous.

The truly disturbing part is that Meghan, Jonathon, Esther and even Avi all look like they agree. Kirstie looks conflicted. Kevin at least look as confused as Scott feels.

And Mitch? Mitch looks conspicuously neutral.

"Um, what?" is what finally comes out of Scott's mouth. They're not even... they're not even going to give him the chance to try? "There's almost another six weeks before it starts. This," he waves his hand around his shoulder ensemble. "Is coming off next Wednesday. I'm getting better every day."

"You are," Jonathon says hesitantly. "And shit, Scott, I'm so unbelievably glad you're going to be fine. You scared the hell out of all of us." There are nods all around the table and Mitch's hand clenches on his leg. "But can you really be ready to sing a full set," Jonathon continues. "Even an altered one, every night in just a few weeks? And do enough choreography to keep the production energetic and visually interesting?"

Scott really wants to say yes. But honestly? He's not sure. He's still exhausted just standing up for more than twenty minutes at a time and aches when he moves too much, more than aches if he accidentally lets his meds run out or moves without pre-planning. And he doesn't have the endurance to sing more than a few songs in a row, none of them with his usual power. But based on how much he's improved already, he knows his voice and his endurance will be far better in just two weeks, never mind six. It's why he wanted to talk to everyone. Sort out what should be possible by October and what's clearly off the table.

He wasn't expecting _all_ of it to be off the table.

Kevin's brow is furrowed. "Our fans know what happened and his voice is already much better than it was a week ago." —Yes, that. Exactly. _Thank you._ — "I think they'll understand if Scott has to sit down for half of each show, takes a back seat more often, and isn't jumping around with the rest of us."

Kev's been coming by to keep Scott and Mitch company in between taking advantage of his unscheduled break to work with Triptyq as well as some other project he's being cagey about. They've done a bit of work on some arrangement ideas for the still-unfinished tracks of the Christmas album, too. Honestly, Kevin's probably got a better and more objective idea of Scott's current vocal capabilities than Scott or even Mitch does.

The point being Scott really fucking loves Kevin. Also their fans, his family, and Mitch, but mostly Kevin in this particular moment.

Meghan nods, but it doesn't look like agreement. "Your biggest fans will, yes. The ones that shell out for VIP, tweet how much they love you every day, and write incredibly unrealistic fanfiction will absolutely understand and support you. Frankly, some of them would shell out $300 to watch you all sit in a circle and sing Kumbaya in a round for 90 minutes."

They should try circle jamming that sometime—while drunk and not in a round because seriously, who thinks Kumbaya would work as a round?—just to see how ridiculous it would get. It could become their new chicken song.

Scott quite possibly needs to work on his reflexive retreat into musical nonsense just to avoid things he doesn't want to hear.

"Two years ago, with your much smaller but proportionally more invested fan base," Meghan continues, looking pretty and annoyingly sympathetic. "You absolutely could have gone out there, sat down, and just sung. The problem is that we've sold out a bunch of arenas and those people? They enjoy your music enough to buy tickets when they see the tour ads and maybe even travel a bit for it, but they're paying to see a spectacle, an arena-level show. Many, probably most of them, don't know you. Some of them won't even know about the accident until they get there, let alone how serious it was. There will be a substantial number of people who may feel like they didn't get what they paid for with an altered format, and those are the people who make up the bulk of the revenue from a tour and the ones that push album sales up the charts."

Their fan base has indeed grown exponentially and every time they perform to a 10 to 20,000 seat arena Scott just can't even believe this is his life. He knows the others feel the same. It's breathtaking and unreal every damn time.

Technically he also knows that the majority of their fans now haven't followed them since the beginning, haven't watched them grow up either in real time or retrospect, and don't consider them old friends or care much about their personal lives. But he tends to forget that because the fans he interacts with directly _are_ their biggest fans. The ones that tweet how hot he is or gush amongst themselves about every minute hairstyle change or tease him at VIP for how often he was staring at Mitch during the last Superfruit.

He understands it, intellectually. But it still fucking hurts that Meghan doesn't think he can be good enough in time to satisfy their average fan. He thinks he's doing a good job of controlling his emotions, but Mitch's hand is smoothing up and down his thigh and Kirstie reaches over and weaves her fingers through his and fuck, he's obviously failing miserably.

He nods reluctantly, conceding part of the point, but says "I still think it's worth a try." Because he does. Kevin nods in agreement. Kirstin and Avi look back at Meghan to see her response.

Mitch is staring down at the table, the fingers of his left hand alternately tracing the grain of the wood and playing with the long sleeve of his hoodie around his cast. Does he not have an opinion on this? Scott frowns at him but his attention is quickly pulled to Esther when she clears her throat.

"What about the travelling itself, Scotty?" she asks. Her voice is gentle. She's clearly not happy about what she's going to say, which means Scott isn't going to be happy either. "Some of the bus days are more than twelve hours long. You're uncomfortable enough cramped for too long on that bus on a good day; is your bunk going to be tolerable even short term right now? A month from now?"

Fuck. He hasn't thought about the bus. He's at least sleeping in a bed again most nights, usually Mitch's, except when he's hurting too much and needs to revert back to the blue monstrosity. But even in the bed he's still propped part-way up with pillows. That won't be possible in the bunks. Hell, Scott's not even sure he'll be able to get _into_ a bunk by October, not even a middle one. He certainly couldn't do it right now.

"You won't be able to see your regular doctors while we're on the road," Esther continues. "And how will you do physio? We can rearrange things and make room for another person on the buses with this much warning, but are you going to be able to find a therapist who's good enough to handle your needs _and_ can leave their practice for a couple months on such short notice? One who can adapt to conditions on the road and keep you steadily improving but not exhaust you before shows or accidentally leave you too sore to perform?"

Apparently Scott hasn't done anywhere near as much thinking as he should have. His notebook doesn't have anything about travel workarounds in it. He swallows. Heavily. He's never lost it in front of label people before and he's not going to do so now.

Mitch's hand remains on his thigh but he's still not making eye contact. It's not—it's not what Scott needs and he can feel despair and frustration and something he can't quite name not-so-slowly building up inside him.

"Won't the—" he pauses and clears his throat because he can feel his voice threatening to crack. "Won't RCA lose a lot of money if we don't tour? Shouldn't you guys _want_ to try everything before cancelling?"

"The label will lose profits, yes," says lawyer guy. James? "But the absolute losses will be minimal due to having Key Man insurance—ˮ

"Key _Person_ ," Mitch mutters and Kirstin grunts agreement from Scott's other side.

_Now_ Mitch says something? Scott's all for enforcing gender neutral terminology, but would a little more personal support right now be too much to fucking ask? He hadn't even been sure Mitch was still listening but apparently correcting an outdated phrase is more important than Scott's fucking sanity at the moment.

James nods. "My apologies. Key _Person_ insurance on you all and since the venues are all contractually obligated to have event cancellation insurance, they should have no problem offering full refunds to ticket holders. We'll work with On the List Presents to make sure the VIPs are all refunded."

Scott will get through this meeting without crying if it fucking kills him. "Are you dropping us?"

That gets everyone's attention. Kirstie and Kevin both look stunned, although Kirst tries to hide it. Avi and Esther wince, eyes dart around the table trying to get gauge people's reactions. Jonathon is staring at Scott like he's never even considered the question, which wow that must be nice. And Mitch is finally willing to look at him, eyes wide with a healthy amount of nerves and more than a little pity.

The reasonable part of Scott wants to label it sympathy rather than pity, but Scott's not sure how much longer he'll be able to hold onto _reasonable_.

Thankfully, Meghan, Steven, and James are all shaking their heads. "Absolutely not," Steven says, looking gratifyingly surprised by the question. "We're very happy with you guys and we'd never drop you for something that wasn't your fault." That's utter bullshit, Scott thinks, as do Avi and Esther, judging from their spookily synchronized glance exchange. "But we do have to try to minimize the amount of damage you take as a brand. If the shows do end up being cancelled, and the probability of that is high, then the sooner it's done, the fewer fans will lose money on hotel rooms and bus tickets and time taken off work. Which means they'll get over it quickly and keep buying albums rather than being bitter and refusing to follow you anymore."

James pauses, and Scott's silent this time. He has no idea what to say; he's out of arguments and no one's backing him up and he's afraid to open his mouth in case something ugly and career ending comes out on accident.

The meeting doesn't last long after that. A few details on how they'll break the news are discussed and Scott realizes they must have already informed the largest of the venue companies for them to be able to proceed so quickly. He supposes he should be grateful the band wasn't just notified by text.

He dumps his notebook in the trash on the way out. He can't deal with what's in it anymore.

Scott's quiet on the way home. He's not— he just doesn't have anything to say. He feels... he's not sure what he feels. There's like a pulsing mass of anxiety, anger, and betrayal simmering just under his skin and he has no idea how to release it without exploding.

His mom can clearly sense the tension. She looks like she's working herself up to ask a couple of times, but in the end she seems to choose not to for now. Probably for the best. Scott's almost always needed time to stew before he's ready to talk. When they get home, she makes them some coffee, basically forcing a mug into each of their hands and then quietly makes up an excuse to leave them alone. Scott doesn't even notice what she comes up with before she's out the door.

Mitch is hovering. Hesitant. They're standing in the kitchen. There's an awkward silence between them for the first time in years.

"You couldn't have been more supportive back there?" Scott finally asks. He's doing his best to control his tone but he's pissed and hurt and the way Mitch flinches lets him know he knows it. He should probably try to care more about upsetting him but right now he just...doesn't.

"I'll always support you," Mitch says. His hand reaches out, beseeching. Scott ignores it.

"Seriously? Because it really felt like the only one who had my back in there was Kevin."

Mitch presses his lips together and takes a deep breath before answering. "Kevin, if anything, is even more optimistic than you are. I'm not saying he hasn't had to overcome things because every time some overly entitled prick says something racist we get a front row seat. But Kevin thinks everything is possible because he's literally never come across anything his work ethic and gigantic brain can't beat. He's well aware of how blessed he is, but he's also got a distorted view of real-world possibilities and limitations. Sometimes shit happens and no amount of work, talent, planning, or perseverance can immediately fix it, Scott."

Fuck that. "I don't even get the chance to try!"

"I know. And I'm so sorry, sweetie." Mitch sets his coffee down and folds his arms around himself. "I wanted to be wrong. But the label had clearly already made its decision and their logic was pretty solid. And nothing Esther pointed out is untrue either."

"The logic is solid and nothing is untrue," Scott repeats, disbelievingly. Like _that's_ the fucking point. He's getting so angry that his coffee cup is shaking in his hand. "You knew it would go this way. You couldn't have warned me? Maybe sometime when I was talking about how good it would feel to perform again or how much I was fucking looking forward to touring?"

Mitch is starting to look a lot less sorry and a lot more pissed off.

Well, that makes two of them.

"I didn't know, I only suspected." His arms are uncrossed again and his gestures are getting larger like they tend to when someone's being an idiot. "And what was I supposed to do, Scott? Should I have reminded you not to get excited before we knew how they'd decide? Oh, wait. I did that repeatedly including this morning!"

Scott's temper finally snaps and he hurls his mug at the wall. Not in Mitch's direction; he may be losing his mind right now but he'd never hurt anyone, least of all Mitch. But he does throw it hard enough that it basically explodes, leaving a large dripping stain on the wall and shards of ceramic scattered all over the floor.

It's extremely satisfying for a few seconds, until he starts to calm and looks over at Mitch and realizes he's fucked but not in a good way.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Mitch asks. His expression is eerily calm. Unreadable.

Unapproachable.

Scott's very, very fucked. "Mitch."

"Did. You. Fucking. Hurt. Yourself?" Mitch asks again, more sharply this time.

"No," Scott answers, voice small. "Mitch, I'm s—"

"Don't." Mitch glances at the shattered remains of the coffee before grabbing his phone and keys off the counter. "I can't deal with you right now. I'm going out."

"Mitchy, please." Scott takes a step towards him, reaches out to try to hold him.

"Get the fuck out of my way, Scott."

Scott does. He watches miserably as Mitch strides over to the front door, jams his feet into some platform tennis shoes, and grabs the closest jacket before the door slams behind him, leaving Scott all alone for the first time in weeks.

Fuck.

That could have gone better.

Scott's a fucking idiot.

He stands there staring at the closed door for maybe five minutes before sighing and finding some shoes of his own. Then he awkwardly digs the broom out of the hall closet and goes to tackle the mess he's made. He manages to get the coffee off the wall and floor, soaked up into paper towels and dumped in a white kitchen garbage bag. It takes him maybe fifteen minutes, but he manages. But the sweeping is another matter; working a broom with any degree of skill one-armed is laughable and it's completely impossible to maneuver any of it into a dustpan.

Scott's sitting on the kitchen floor, carefully picking up ceramic shards and tossing them into the garbage bag, when the door opens. He turns carefully, hoping it's Mitch coming back to either forgive him or yell at him some more, but unfortunately it's just his mother. He hopes his disappointment isn't too obvious.

"Scott?" She looks concerned as she enters the kitchen, setting some grocery bags on the counter before coming over to him. She smooths a hand through his hair. "What happened? Are you okay? Did you drop your coffee?"

This should go well.

He's down to the smaller pieces now, ones he has to be especially careful with so he doesn't cut himself. He picks up another few, one by one, avoiding meeting her eyes before quietly admitting: "I threw it."

"You what?"

"Mitch and I had an argument and I lost my temper. I threw it."

She's silent for a long moment. He can feel her staring at him. He drops another shard into the bag.

"Did you— did you throw it at Mitch?" she finally asks.

"What? No!" Scott jerks his head up to scowl at her. Was she fucking serious? "Of course I didn't. Jesus, Mom."

His mom's hands come up, palms out. Calming. Placating. "I didn't think you had but I needed to be sure."

He should probably just accept that. "He's pissed at me."

"Well yeah, Scott. People tend to be angry when you throw things. What did you think would happen?"

"Thinking wasn't really happening right then."

She sighs. "What did y'all argue about? The ride home was tense but I didn't want to intrude before you'd worked it out. Did something happen at the meeting?"

Yeah, you could say that. "RCA is cancelling the rest of tour."

"Oh, honey." She holds out a hand for him to take. "C'mon, I'll do the rest of this. You want some hot chocolate?"

"You do know warm drinks can't fix everything?" He takes her hand and lets her help him up. It's a good thing she's tall and trained in helping people because getting his heavy ass off the floor should have been far more difficult than it is. He's regretting sitting down there at all because his shoulder and side are so not happy with him. He should probably take something now before it gets worse but he doesn't really want to. He deserves to feel shitty.

"No," his mom says. She sits him at the counter and then starts to putter, putting groceries away and pulling out a small pot. "But it's usually better to drink a cup than throw it."

Well. Drag him. Not that she's wrong. "Did everyone know tour would be cancelled but me?"

"I work in a rehab center, Scott. I figured if anyone was stubborn enough to try it'd be you, but that doesn't mean I thought it was realistic or a good idea."

"Why did no one tell me?" Okay, wow. That came out whinier than intended.

She sighs again, one of her deep, frustrated, why-are-the-men-in-my-life-like-this sighs. "Sometimes you are so like your father. You've both always been excellent at not listening to things you don't want to hear. Did you think Mitch was trying to curb your enthusiasm for his health?"

He hadn't meant to ignore anyone. He just... he's so tired of feeling helpless and he'd been delusional enough to think maybe he wasn't quite so much anymore.

Ha. Hilarious.

His mom has turned the stove on and is portioning out cocoa powder, sugar, salt, and water into the pot. He has no idea how she manages to multitask putting things away, talking to him, sweeping up the rest of his mess, and cooking all at the same time, but she's always been good at it. She rummages around in the pantry for a long moment, in between stirring. "Don't you boys have any vanilla extract?"

Yes, because he and Mitch are well known for their culinary skills. "Um, no?"

That earns him yet another sigh, but then she discovers Mitch's vanilla flavored soymilk in the fridge and that seems to satisfy her.

"I'm sorry this is so hard for you, honey. I wish I could make it better."

Yeah, him too. "I'll cope."

Maybe.

"This is probably the first time in your life you've been adrift," she says. "I get that it's difficult."

Okay, that's not true. "Pretty sure that four-year-long sexual identity crisis counts as 'adrift'."

She snorts and returns to stirring. "I meant you've been progressing towards the same goal your entire life, Scott. Long before sex was anywhere near your radar, never mind who you'd want to have it with. Everything you've done, everything you worked for, all that time and those auditions and the rejections you coped with over the years? It was all so you could sing. But you've always had control, even after the most soul-crushing of your setbacks, you've had control over what you did next, how you improved, who you went to for help."

Um, no he didn't. "You and dad had the control."

His mom has clearly finished whatever magic is involved with making hot chocolate from scratch. She gives it one last stir and then pours it out into two mugs, handing him one of them. She smiles bemusedly. "No. We supported you. We paid for it all and supervised, obviously, but the drive and the plan were all yours. It was your dream; we were just along for the ride. And, well, to rein you in when necessary, like that time you wanted that keyboard we would have had to sell the house and possibly a kidney to afford or when you wanted to camp outside all night on the off chance Destiny's Child would come out of their tour bus."

Scott is actually still bitter about that last one. He figures it's probably childish to still argue a point he lost fifteen years ago though, so he just takes a sip of his cocoa.

His mom rolls her eyes and sits down beside him at the counter. "You were _nine_ , Scott. And it was a school night."

Details.

Huh. The vanilla actually gives the hot chocolate it a really nice flavor.

"The point is," his mom continues. "You feel like you have no say and no control and that's killing you."

The point is... the point is probably valid. He wonders if they have any sort of vanilla liquor left anywhere in the house. Maybe that would help. It'd certainly taste good.

And maybe resorting to alcoholism to deal with his thwarted tendency towards being a control freak is a really, really bad idea. Not to mention mixing it with codeine.

"I just... I thought it was almost over, you know?" Scott says, slowly spinning his cup around on the counter. "Not the healing or the rehab, but the forced break and the uncertainty. I thought I could work with everyone to get us back on track, but it had already been decided and almost everyone else already knew it."

She grimaces sympathetically and pats his knee with one hand, holding her mug with the other. "I'm sorry, honey. You'll get back to it soon."

Scott's usually fond of the word soon. He really enjoys the fandom flailing it induces, not to mention the retweets and general hype buildup it causes for whatever they've got going on "#soon". But right now he's _really_ not into it.

He finishes his hot chocolate, manages to put the mug in the sink instead of throwing it, and gives his mom a peck on the cheek before heading outside to think, easing himself onto one of the chaise lounges Mitch insisted they needed on the balcony after dragging it into some shade. He only stares at the skyline for about a minute and a half before realizing he's not really in the mood to be alone with his thoughts, so he pulls out his phone to distract himself.

There's a text from Jonathon. 'We announced it. Sorry, Scotty.'

Well. That's that, then.

Fuck.

Scott hesitates for a moment and then opens Twitter. He hasn't really been on it much since the accident. He posted a single 'I'm alive and will eventually be fine' themed tweet a couple of weeks ago but since then has only checked it occasionally, answering DMs from actual friends and a few celeb acquaintances in the verified filter. Mitch has otherwise convinced him to ignore it for his own sanity. He appreciates the love and support he's caught glimpses of, but he's just needed to concentrate on himself and remaining as stress-free as possible.

That's really working out right now, isn't it?

There are two new tweets from the PTXOfficial account, probably crafted by Jonathon:

_We regret to announce the cancelation of the fall NA leg of the PTX World Tour. For details including how ticket refunds will proceed, see PTXofficial.com/tour_

And then:

_We apologize to our fans for any disappointment or inconvenience. We love you all! For more information, see PTXofficial.com/tour_

Responses have already been flooding in, the vast majority of which are a mixed outpouring of innocent disappointment and ardent support. Like always though, it's the negative ones that catch Scott's eye. The ones that call him unprofessional or tell him to just suck it up or suggest that the band replace him, either temporarily or permanently.

Those fucking hurt and no amount of love and sympathy from everyone else can quite erase them from his mind.

Scott quickly types out ' _my fault. i'm so sorry'_ with his thumb and sends it. It probably would have been better to do his usual hemming and hawing and stressing and sending a draft to Mitch for review before hitting the blue tweet button, but Mitch isn't really available for comment right now and Scott doesn't really care if he comes across emo as fuck because honestly that's how he's feeling.

The fans immediately respond, of course. _'miss u bb boy!!!'_ and _'oh sweetie, we love you it's okay'_ and _'@PTXOfficial @mitchgrassi @somebody go and hug him right now pls!'_ and _'we understand Scottie!'_ and his personal favorite _'Fuck you, Hoyinng'_.

Scott's thrown enough things today, so he closes Twitter before his phone becomes the next casualty.

Which of course is when the tears start. He's torn between being surprised at how quickly he's full out crying and being surprised that he managed to hold out this long. He tries to be quiet—he doesn't want to worry his mom or have to explain anything else—but it's a struggle.

Scott has no idea how long he's a relatively silent blubbering mess out there, but eventually a hand pats the back of his good shoulder and a light voice says "Sit up for a sec?"

Scott looks up into brown eyes. "Mitch?"

"That would be me," Mitch says, without any of the heat that was in his voice however long ago it was he walked out. "You gonna sit up or what?"

Scott does so, biting back a groan at how uncomfortable it is to move and scooching up a bit when Mitch taps him on the back again. Mitch climbs in behind him on the lounger, legs on either side of his hips, and pulls Scott back in to rest against his chest. He settles his chin on Scott's good shoulder and his hands around Scott's waist in a loose cuddle. "You okay?"

Getting better, actually but: "Not really."

Mitch snorts lightly. "I bet."

"I'm sorry, Mitchy. I didn't... I shouldn't have... ˮ Smooth as usual, Scott. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Mitch squeezes his waist softly. "I should have realized how in denial you were and how hard you'd take this."

Nice to know everyone's in agreement that he's handling all of this predictably poorly, Scott thinks, scrubbing at his wet face with the back of his hand. Not that they're wrong.

"They announced it," is what he says.

"Yeah, I saw." Mitch presses a gentle kiss to the side of Scott's neck. "How's your shoulder?"

"Sore as fuck." He really, really should have taken his meds before coming outside.

Mitch flips the hand he'd previously held closed over to reveal two white tablets in his palm. Tylenol 3s. Scott scoops them up gratefully and before he can bemoan the lack of liquid to take them with, Mitch is reaching down beside them and coming back with an opened bottle of water.

"You're amazing."

"That was your mom's doing, actually. She's having a hard time balancing her desire to leave you alone with her need to fret." Mitch waits for Scott to down the pills and then takes back the water bottle and sets it aside. Then he places a very familiar-looking notebook into Scott's lap. "So apparently I'm so 'amazing' I've been seriously neglecting your emotional needs."

Scott hesitates for a moment and then tentatively opens the book. Yep, it's his.

_Shit._ "Where did you get this?"

"So funny story: Kirstie called me just after I left. Told me to meet her at Starbucks. I figured why not? Since I needed to vent about my boyfriend being an utter ass and all."

Scott winces. He can't really argue that. "I'm sor—ˮ

"Oh, no, it gets _better_. See, Kirstie wasn't alone. Seems Esther found your book, read though some of it, and decided to stage an intervention. They were _all_ there."

Well, double shit. But... "Why would they bother you? _I'm_ the one who was delusional enough to think we could still tour and who only barely refrained from having a temper tantrum in front of the label." He'd managed to save it until they got home, and oh didn't that go well?

"To be fair," Mitch says, wrapping his casted arm comfortingly around Scott's stomach. "Kevin really was right there with you on the delusion front. But see, that book of yours not only has tour adaptation ideas, and album arrangements, but also some dream fragments" – _fuck_ , Scott forgot he'd written out a couple of his recurring nightmares in the back in an unsuccessful attempt to get them the hell out of his psyche— "and the start of the saddest fucking love song I've ever seen in my life. And here I thought I'd be the one penning depressing ballads about losing the love of my life."

Scott winces again. He really isn't ready for anyone to see that. In fact, he's pretty sure he'd never have been ready for anyone to see that. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It's beautiful. It made both Kevin and Avi tear up and they wrote _Run to You_ , for fuck's sake. Kirstie was a mess. Maybe we need to alter some of the lyrics to something a little less personal, but we're finishing that song someday."

Scott might like that. He needs to get the rest of it out before it eats him alive, but altering it after the fact to something that's not Mitch's death would make it more bearable to release. He's not sure if it will work better as a Pentatonix or a Superfruit track, but it'd be good to have something worthwhile come of it.

"Anyway," Mitch continues. "Apparently I haven't been forthcoming enough on your state of mind with the rest of the group, which earned me a lecture of epic proportions on the proper care and feeding of Scott Hoyings as well as a threat that I needed to _do better_ or there'd be consequences."

Scott's having a hard time processing this. "How is my inability to accept the obvious your fault? I've been _trying_ to hide how shit my mood has been from you."

Mitch nods, smoothing his other hand gently up Scott's side to hold him closer. "You have, and I'm a little pissed about that too. But apparently it's an obvious and logical conclusion that you'd handle the first time in your life that your career trajectory has been completely out of your control really badly, given your 'leader type personality'."

"Oh, fuck off. Kirstie did not say 'leader type personality'." Is he seriously this much of an open book to everyone?

"No," Mitch agreed. "Avi did."

Even better. "Fuck my life."

"That part was pretty great, actually. I laughed my ass off." Scott gets another neck kiss, this one slightly apologetic, although he can feel the unreserved curve of a smile on Mitch's lips. "Anyway, they're all coming over tomorrow morning so we can start on the Christmas album. We're over a month behind and we'll have to figure out what to do with White Christmas if we can't reschedule with The Manhattan Transfer. And there are those other two tracks we still need to work out..."

...And a melodramatic baritone with apparently obvious control issues that they're all conspiring to keep busy. Not that Scott's complaining; he desperately needs a project and they're right in that the Christmas album needs to be their number one priority.

Thank fuck they'd already recorded Hallelujah before the accident, because there's no way those vocals are coming out of Scott anytime soon. Although how the hell they're going to film the video the song deserves is beyond Scott at the moment. They'd been playing around with the idea of a desert shoot, but with his newfound sense of realism, Scott's really not sure he's going to be up to that in time.

"I imagine we'll also get another lecture on talking through our emotions and not just covering them up with sex." Mitch sighs dramatically. "I don't know what the hell Kirst thinks we've been getting up to."

"Probably exactly what we _have_ been getting up to." Scott's slowly coming to the conclusion that he's mentally and physically exhausted, but he does stop and think about that one for a minute. "I hope her imaginary Scott's been having more orgasms."

"Jesus Christ," Mitch laughs against his neck. "Why do I put up with you?"

"You love me." Scott smiles and nestles back into Mitch's embrace. Mitch is forgiving him and oh hey, his meds are kicking in and this is all really quite nice.

Mitch hums his agreement, pressing a kiss just under his ear.

"And you're hoping I'll get around to blowing you one of these days" Scott can't resist adding.

Mitch huffs another laugh. "That is... accurate." He tilts his head to rest it against Scott's, smoothing a hand up Scott's chest to hold him close. "Among other things."

Yeah. Hopefully tonight, Scott will dream of 'other things'.

He thinks maybe he should force himself to get up and go to bed, but he's so tired and relaxed and comfortable and warm and content for the first time in hours and Mitch is cuddly and 

**Blink.**


	11. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my favorite kinky artist, and everyone else, for their incredible…well, maybe ‘patience’ is the wrong word. XD
> 
> My thanks also to rainbowsraging for her reassurance. <3

 Scott wakes up to the feeling of someone staring at him. It’s not scary; he’s in his own bed, after all. Well, Mitch’s bed. He even seems to have slept through the night for once. But he gets stared at often enough in public that it’s disconcerting even at home, so when it persists for more than a few seconds he cracks open an eye to see what’s going on.

Mitch is cuddled into his side, sheets pushed down to his waist leaving his torso bare, watching him from his pillow. He smiles when he notices Scott looking back at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Scott responds, voice thick with sleep. “Wha’time izzit?”

“Almost ten.” Mitch reaches over to smooth a lock of Scott’s hair back from where it was tickling his forehead. “I just double checked our calendar. We have literally nowhere we need to be until the studio this afternoon.”

Scott hums and nestles back into his pillow. “Awesome.”

“How are you feeling? You hurting? Need your pills?”

“Nah.” Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea, actually, to let them kick in before he has to do his stretches, but what Scott really needs to do this morning is go back to sleep for another hour or three. “M’fine.”

“Good,” Mitch’s fingers trace down his cheek and his thumb rubs gently back and forth across Scott’s bottom lip. “Because I was thinking I could climb on your cock.”

What Scott really needs to do this morning is _wake the fuck up_.

“I…you…really?”

If there’s one thing Scott always prides himself on, it’s his ability to _eloquent_.

Mitch laughs at him. “Really. I mean, if you’re up for it.”

Oh, he’s up for it. Or rather he will be in about twenty seco…or Mitch could bite his lip like that and yep, there. Not a problem.

“C’mere,” Scott says, reaching out to pull Mitch towards him. “Fuck, Mitch. C’mere.”

They’re already naked, with the exception of Scott’s sling. Mitch has always preferred sleeping naked regardless of situation, and while Scott frequently wears at least boxers to bed while sleeping alone, he loves the feel of skin on skin way too much to ever wear them when he’s with a partner.

And when he’s got a naked Mitch is his bed? Wearing non-critical clothing would never even cross his mind.

They just kiss for a while, trading control back and forth as they explore each other’s mouths. Kissing and cuddling are some of Scott’s favorite pastimes, so he’s happy to let it build slowly. Mitch, however, is soon wiggling with impatience and eventually breaks away to trace his fingers along the edge of Scott’s sling.

“Off?”

“Yeah.”

It takes like a full minute for Scott to sit up, divest himself of the sling, and lay back down in a quasi-comfortable fashion. He can’t wait until he’s done with the damn thing; it’s way, way better than the fucking screwed-in fixation thing, of course, but it’s still inconvenient when he wants to do things like get dressed or, y’know, _laid_.

Mitch, meanwhile, has fished a condom and lube out of the bedside table and is starting to finger himself open in a way that has the few remaining drops of blood in Scott’s brain draining directly into his dick.

“Oh my God, come here,” he croaks, making grabby hands. Well, grabby hand. Whatever.  It’s successful, because Mitch shuffles closer and then swings a leg over him, settling astride his lap and sliding their cocks together in the process. “ _Fuck_.”

“ _Please._ ”

As much as Scott wants to help, he lets Mitch continue opening himself on his own. He’s only got one useable hand and while having his fingers up Mitch’s ass is a beautiful, amazing, gorgeous, delicious thought, he doesn’t want to be thinking about where he should and shouldn’t be sticking those fingers afterwards. Instead, he settles his hands on Mitch’s thighs and arches his hips just enough to keep frotting their cocks together.

Mitch whimpers, and with one final twist of his wrist, pulls out his fingers and hastily rolls the condom over Scott. After the application of more lube over the condom, which involves a lot more squeezing and tugging than is absolutely necessary and has Scott whimpering in turn, Mitch licks his lips and lines himself up.

He sinks down slowly, breathing deeply as he goes. Scott holds as still as he can; it’s not easy, but he appreciates the necessity. It’s obviously been a few months for Mitch at this point and Scott’s not a small guy. He’s always joked about how big his dick is, usually while trading insults back and forth with Todrick or leering into the Superfruit camera until Mitch rolls his eyes and declares himself done with him. While he’s obviously exaggerating for effect in those cases, in truth he’s, well, proportional to his height. A fact Mitch currently seems to be appreciating.

Eventually he’s fully seated and, after a long, agonizing moment, begins to move. He’s slow at first, just gently rocking back and forth, still adjusting. Then he picks up the pace, grinding his hips up and forward before dropping down and back.

God, he looks beautiful like this, narrow hips and taut abs rolling, lips parting as he gasps for air. Sweat is starting to gather at his hairline, glistening at his temples and along the line of his jaw.

It’s good.  It’s so, so good. But after a few minutes Scott realizes Mitch is being overly cautious. Controlled. At first Scott thinks it’s for Mitch’s benefit, that he’s having more trouble taking Scott than he’d have thought. But when he catches him glancing at his shoulder and purposely easing up his ride, Scott figures out the real problem; Mitch is still scared of hurting him.

Which is…understandable, he supposes. God knows Scott would be terrified of hurting Mitch if their situations were reversed. But still. What Scott really wants is Mitch riding with abandon, lost in his head and only thinking about chasing his own pleasure and driving Scott insane, not holding himself back to ensure Scott’s comfort. Alternatively, Scott wants to be the one controlling Mitch, slowing and guiding him, listening to his whimpers and moans and pleas until neither of them can take it anymore. He wants to sit up and devour him. Wants to roll them over and just take him. Wants…wants to not be so helpless. Mitch is riding his cock and Scott never been so simultaneously thrilled and frustrated in his entire fucking life.

He squeezes his hands, thumbs over Mitch’s hipbones, fingers spread wide around the globes of his ass. It feels fantastic, like his hands were designed to be there, but of course it angers his shoulder and he’s forced to release his grip well before he wants to. Before he can guide a different rhythm or leave marks that last more than a second before fading away.

Technically he could still squeeze with one hand rather than two, but it feels wrong to him. Unnatural.

_Half-assed._

He snickers at his own joke because he’s five years old.

Mitch slows his hips and squints down at him. “Now I _know_ you’re not laughing at me while we’re fucking.”

Oh shit. “No Mitchy.” Scott makes the effort to squeeze with both hands again. The expected flare of pain makes him release it almost immediately, but he’s gratified by the way Mitch’s head falls back and his hips restart. “I was just wondering if this could count as a strength training exercise.”

“Squeezing my ass?” Mitch’s eyes flutter closed as Scott s good hand traces up his side and over his neck to cup his jaw.

“It’s very motivating,” Scott says, rolling his own hips up to meet each thrust. “I love your ass. And right now, I really, _really_ love your ass.”

Mitch turns his head to press a kiss into Scott’s palm. “I support your love for my ass.” He nips lightly at the base of Scott’s thumb. “Dare you to ask your new PT.”

“Think I’ll—“ Scott gasps as Mitch’s fingers trace up his abs, just the right side of ticklish, and his thumbs start to smooth small circles over his nipples. “Think I’ll get to know Farah a bit better first. Mom will kill me if I scare her off so soon.”

Mitch snorts and leans forward, planting one hand on Scott’s good shoulder and the other on the bed beside his bad one. The new angle makes his cock rub against Scott’s stomach with every meet of their hips, a sight Scott sincerely appreciates before Mitch leans farther down and takes his lips in a quick kiss.

“New rule: You don’t mention any of our parents while your cock is in my ass.” Mitch tilts his head to the side. “Actually, not while any part of you is inside any part of me. Or vice versa. Or really anytime we’re even thinking about sex.”

Good rule, except: “That’s like 95% of the time for me.”

Mitch rolls his eyes, and sits partway back up, still braced on Scott’s shoulder and the bed but no longer resting on Scott’s chest. “You’re such a boy.”

“Hmm.”  Scott trails his fingers over Mitch’s collarbone, across his ribs, and down his stomach. There’s a drop of precome near his own belly button from where Mitch’s dick was brushing over his skin and Scott swipes at it with his thumb. He brings it up to his mouth and makes a show of sucking it clean, enjoying how it makes Mitch’s pupils dilate. “You like that about me.”

“I really do.” He leans down again, licking into Scott’s mouth, chasing his tongue with his own. “I love the feel of your cock inside me,” he whispers, like he’s confessing a secret. Like it’s not obvious from the way he’s squirming slightly at the end of every grind.

“Yeah? You like my big cock filling you up?”

“Hmmm.” Mitch tilts his head to the side. “Big?”

Scott has to laugh; such a fucking asshole. “New rule: You don’t make fun of my dick while it’s inside you. Or touching you. Or hard for you.”

“So like 95% of the time?”

Scott ponders this for a second. “Accurate.”

Mitch hums and kisses him again. “Wanted this for so long. Used to jerk myself off thinking about you like this. Hard for me. Inside of me.”

“Fuck, Mitch,” Scott whines, bringing his hand up to the back of Mitch’s head and holding him close. “You can’t say things like that when I can’t follow through like I want.”

“Yeah?” Mitch grinds down especially hard. “What do you want?”

Scott growls and pulls him into another kiss, this one harsher than the others. “I want to roll you over and fuck you through the mattress.”

The way Mitch’s eyes lose focus and his hot breath gusts across Scott’s cheek in time with his thrusts as he contemplates that scenario is gratifying. “God, I’m here for that.” Then he smirks, dimples on full display, and pushes away until he’s sitting all the way up. “But for now I get to be in control.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah.” Mitch resettles his hands on his knees, adjusts his angle, and then restarts his ride, pushing himself up with his thighs and falling back down into the cradle of Scott’s hips, grunting softly as he retakes Scott’s cock each time.

And wow, watching his cock enter Mitch over and over again is never going to get old. Though Scott really needs to focus on something else before this is all over way, way too soon. Luckily, he has a point he can prove. “Touch yourself, Mitch. Run those hands all over your gorgeous body and give me a show.”

Mitch’s head falls back. His hands smooth up his chest, circling and cupping his pecs like he’s showing off non-existent breasts. One of his hands continues up, tracing over his collarbone, his neck, and then up around his jaw. He bites at the side of his own thumb, tugging his bottom lip open in a way that makes Scott’s breath hitch with want. His other hand slides straight down his stomach and happy trail before settling in a loose circle around his cock. He groans as he starts to stroke in time with his ride.

_Fuck._ It’s exactly what Scott asked for and it’s so much hotter than he’s ever imagined. Which shouldn’t be possible because Scott’s imagination is a raunchy, obscene cesspit of sin much of the time and Mitch has featured prominently in it for _years_. But apparently the real thing is a thousand times better.  “Fuck, that’s it.” He leaves his bad hand on Mitch’s hip, fingers squeezing as often as he can stand, and entwines his other hand with Mitch’s around his cock, helping him jerk himself and circling his thumb over the head every few strokes.

Mitch whimpers and picks up the pace of his hips to match Scott’s hand. His other arm drops limply to his side, like he can’t spare the brain power to control it anymore with everything else he’s feeling. He’s fucking himself harder now, each thrust ending in a breathy whine as Scott’s cock presumably slides over his prostate. Scott tightens his fist and Mitch moans and it’s so, so perfect. He’s clearly no longer thinking about anything other than how good he feels, how much he needs to come, and Scott could watch him like this forever.

“That’s it,” he says again, rolling his own hips up and delighting in how Mitch’s whines get sharper. Needier. “So beautiful, Mitchy.”

Mitch falls forward, bracing himself with his hand planted on the mattress by Scott’s pillow. His mouth is hanging open, still panting and whining with each thrust, and his eyes are wide and unfocused, staring into or maybe through Scott’s own. His fingers under Scott’s on his cock are lax, merely along for the ride now as Scott tightens his grip and strokes him more and more quickly. “I’m gonna…”

“Yes,” Scott says, mesmerized and more turned on than he’s ever been in his entire life. “Come for me. Give it to me, Mitch.”

Another few strokes and he does, shaking and crying out and spilling over Scott’s hand and stomach and sanity. The second he relaxes, Scott lets go of his cock and reaches up to pull his head down into a kiss, mindless of the come still dripping through his fingers. He’s thrusting up into him, graceless and desperate, and Mitch returns it, grinding as deep and dirty as any drunken dancing Scott’s ever seen from him. His hands settle around Scott’s face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks and fingers spread across his jaw and scalp. It’s not all that different to how he’s held him during any one of their make out sessions of the past two months. But now Scott’s dick is inside him—Scott just felt him come from _inside him_ —and that difference is _everything_ and that’s all it takes to have Scott shuddering through his own orgasm, gasping and moaning into their kiss.

The kiss slowly gentles into something more civilized as they relax back into themselves and each other. Mitch eventually pulls back, smiling softly. “Wow.”

Scott can’t help but return the smile. “Wow.”

“So I’m going to want to do that again. A lot. Like _a lot_ a lot.”

“Fuck yes.” Like two or three times a day for the rest of their lives. Maybe that’s an optimistic estimate, but Scott’s more than willing to try.

“God, I’m looking forward to when you’re in control,” Mitch says, pushing himself upright and stretching his back. “Once your arm is more cooperative, I mean.”

Scott agrees with the sentiment; he really wants Mitch writhing under him. But the phrasing is _hilarious_. “It’s so cute how you think you were the one in control there.”

“I was. I…” Mitch pauses and blinks a couple of times. “Well fuck.”

“There it is,” Scott says, grinning at the disgruntled look on Mitch’s face. “You got there.”

“I think we both got there.”

Scott leers up at him. “Yeah we did.”

Mitch leans down for one last kiss and then unfortunately pulls off and away. He’s nice enough to remove and tie off the condom, and then attempts to get out of bed, but Scott manages to snag one of his arms before he gets far. “Cuddle me?”

Mitch glances down at himself and wrinkles his nose, but then looks Scott over, face softening. He dumps the condom on top of some tissues on the nightstand and tucks in on his side under Scott’s arm, hand resting on his chest. “Just for a little while.”

A little while is good, Scott thinks sleepily. A little while is fantastic. All that skin and warmth and endorphins and relaxation and _Mitch_.

**Blink**

 

Scott wakes from his post-coital doze when Mitch kisses his forehead and starts untangling himself from their cuddle. Scott reaches for him to try to keep him in bed a while longer, but Mitch just kisses him again and slides out anyway. “Shhh, I need to shower. I have jizz in my hair and well, pretty much everywhere else and I can’t stand it anymore. Just go back to sleep, babe.”

Scott watches him pad to the bathroom and blearily considers obeying, but decides he should get a set of the stretches Farah assigned him out of the way first.

He reluctantly sits up and gets started. They hurt like hell, but he’ll be damned if he’s not doing everything humanly possible to get better. And he has to admit that even after only a few days, he’s already seeing better range of motion. It’s still shit, of course, and he has literally no strength or ability to hold a muscle contraction—or Mitch’s ass—for longer than like a millisecond, but it’s better than it was.

Besides, he has an appointment tomorrow and Farah might be 5’2 and weigh 120 pounds soaking wet, but he has a feeling she’ll be scary as fuck if she thinks he’s been slacking. She’s great, a huge improvement over his first physical therapist, and her sense of humor seems fantastic. But he’s pretty sure she read him like a book and knows exactly how to make him feel like a disobedient two-year-old if he doesn’t give his recovery everything he’s got.

As opposed to his first therapist who… well, she seriously misjudged what would motivate Scott. She made him feel more like a closeted 15-year-old than a disobedient toddler.

Jessica—not Jess or Jessie, _Jessica_ —couldn’t figure out that questioning his masculinity whenever something was hard for him wasn’t actually helpful. He feels a bit bad for her, honestly, because what kind of assholes must her regular male clients be if she’s accustomed to getting better results out of them whenever she calls them girls?

His sympathy doesn’t extend to wanting to keep working with her, although he’d tried to avoid kicking up a fuss. But avoiding one had become impossible once Mitch sensed his lack of enthusiasm and bullied him into talking about it. Which lead to Mitch discussing the situation with his mom, which lead to his mom accompanying him to his next session like he was ten years old.

His mom had let the sexist comments go, but then Jessica had made the mistake of trying to magically pull another few degrees of motion out of him by implying he was queer—charmingly used as a slur in a way that made him flash back to some of his least favorite high school memories—if he couldn’t ‘man up and do it’.

“Y’know,” his mom had said suddenly, oozing politeness. “I’ve never thought of using basic descriptors as insults to encourage my patients. Let me try: ‘Scott, what are you, tall? You want people to think you’re tall because you give up so easy? Shorten up, tall boy!’”

Scott had really wanted to laugh at the expression on Jessica’s face; it was a fantastic combination of constipated and deer-in-headlights. But he hadn’t had the energy and instead continued sprawling on the floor against a pile of exercise mats, where he’d most definitely and utterly given up.

“Huh,” his mom had said. “Guess that doesn’t work after all. Imagine that.”

It had taken her three days to source a new physical therapist with both the qualifications and an attitude she approved of. Which was good because she took over helping him in the meantime and that wasn’t fun for either of them. She had to torture her own child and he hated hating his own mother, even if it was only fleeting. Not that PT was ever particularly enjoyable but getting back to having a near-stranger hurt him to help him was a relief.

Also, he prefers a therapist who isn’t going to sit him down afterwards to discuss how his preferred pain coping mechanism of continuous cussing is a bad reflection on her parenting skills.

Once he finishes the exercises, sweating and swearing the whole time, he sprawls out across the bed again, not quite dozing, but not quite awake either. Mitch apparently needs the world’s longest shower; Scott’s weirdly proud of that.

Eventually a hand runs through his hair and he hums contentedly, opening his eyes. Mitch is there, still a bit damp but wrapped in his robe and looking snatched and perfect. “Finish your stretching?”

“Mmm, yeah. How’d you know?”

“Because if you were swearing that much while masturbating, you’re doing it wrong. And I clearly did you wrong too.”

That makes him laugh but then it turns into a wince as the movement throbs through his newly angered shoulder. “Ow, fuck.”

Mitch’s hand runs through his hair again, comfortingly. “Why don’t you take your pain meds and have a shower and I’ll order us some Starbucks. You still want to try filming Superfruit today?”

Not really, but they can’t put it off forever. “Yeah.” Mitch nods and heads over to his closet, where he’ll no doubt spend an age trying to decide what to wear on camera for their grand reappearance.

Scott stares at the ceiling and ponders what the fuck they’ll even do on Superfruit, but decides he’ll never figure it out if he doesn’t get moving. He does grab a couple of pain pills before starting the water, once again grateful for their new house and its ostentatious master bath. The walk-in shower is easy to get in and out of and the over-the-top rainfall showerhead is high enough he doesn’t even have to duck. The hot water cascading over him is glorious on sore muscles and joints and he spends far too long under it, wastes far too much water, but he’s soon feeling much better.

It’s exactly what he needs, he thinks as he awkwardly lathers the soap, which has been blessedly true the last couple of days, especially this morning. October is looking up.

September was…not great. Well, it was better than August in that it contained no car crashes, near-death experiences, major surgery, hospital food, or hideously ugly furniture purchases. But that was about all it had going for it.

To start, the external fixation didn’t come off as scheduled. Scott was sent for one last x-ray to confirm everything was good to go before his appointment to remove the fucking screws, except that confirmation hadn’t come. Instead, his doctor thought the bone wasn’t quite fused enough and decided to leave the fixation on for another ten days.

Ten days.

So instead of the early birthday present of a relatively normal-looking if still mostly useless arm, Scott spent his 25th birthday still rocking the cyborg look. And by ‘rocking’ he means sulking spectacularly. His dad and one of his sisters flew out to spend his birthday with him, which he truly appreciated, but he and Mitch didn’t throw the house party he’d been hoping to have. It would have been tame as hell by his standards—he’d had dreams of booze flowing freely in an expensive hotel in Singapore when they’d planned the tour dates back in the spring—but he’d hoped to at least have a drink or two with a bunch of friends and family while listening to some good music before probably passing out from exhaustion by ten thirty.

But he just hadn’t felt like it. He and his family and Mitch had a nice meal delivered and Scott tried to be pleasant and social, but it was a thin veneer that absolutely everyone could see through. He managed a real smile when he blew out his candles—it was the first time in years he didn’t have to wish that Mitch would love him back, so he could use it instead to wish for a working fucking shoulder—but he went to bed shortly afterwards despite the early hour. When Mitch did eventually cuddle in beside him, Scott couldn’t even work up the enthusiasm to do more than return his kiss goodnight.

In retrospect, he’s kind of pissed that he was too busy sulking to take advantage of birthday sex. Mitch had been hesitant to take things farther right up until this morning. But considering how much he’d obviously been holding himself back out of fear of hurting him, Scott probably could have convinced him on his actual birthday if he’d had any perspective at all, and they could have been happily having sex for the past three weeks.

Scott sighs and starts singing The Greatest for probably the thousandth time this week as he washes his hair. He’s pretty sure he’d have loved the song anyway, between Sia’s tribute to Pulse in her video and its general awesomeness. But it’s also come at a perfect time for him; ‘ _Runnin’ out of breath but I, oh I. I got stamina_ ’ and ‘ _Don’t give up, I won’t give up, don’t give up, no no no_ ’ have become his own personal mantra these days.

Still, he’s singing much more softly than usual so as not to strain his voice, because the ‘ _I’ve got stamina_ ’ part is a fucking lie. He’s got a recording session for the Christmas album that evening and it’s been going…agonizingly slowly is probably the most accurate descriptor. He can’t tolerate sessions of more than about an hour, ninety minutes if he really pushes it. Just finding a position that opens his chest and voice without putting an uncomfortable strain on his shoulder or his curved spine has been a bitch and he’s often in substantial pain by the time he leaves the studio. He also needs more takes than he ever has before, compounding the problem of shorter sessions. He’s too breathy or his voice wavers unexpectedly or he gets the lyrics wrong despite them being right in front of him because he can’t concentrate for shit once he starts hurting. He’s getting it done, but it’s taking forever. Time is ticking and he feels like he’s letting everyone down each and every time he sits in front of a mic.

And despite the fact that he’s been teased about it by literally everyone he’s ever sung with or performed for, it turns out he actually _does_ need his fucking hands moving to sing properly. He’s psychologically dependent on body language he can’t really use right now and it _sucks_.

But hey, the label was absolutely right to cancel tour. There’s no damn way it would have been anything but a complete disaster. Scott rolls his eyes at the stupidity of last month’s Scott and turns the shower off with a final riff on ‘ _I got stamina_ ’.

Tonight’s session isn’t even one he’d expected to have to do. Two days after his birthday, Jonathon had called with some less-than-stellar news.  The rights for the version of Hallelujah they’d already recorded had fallen through; they wouldn’t be able to use it on the album.

Before the accident, this might have made Scott happy. He adores the complexity of the original lyrics and that’s what he’d had in mind when he brought it to the group. However, since they decided on including it on the Christmas album, Kevin had argued that the Cloverton lyrics were more appropriate. He wasn’t wrong; a lot of their target audience would love it, and Scott had let himself be persuaded. It wasn’t a bad choice, just not his personal preference.

So they’d recorded Hallelujah before the accident and Scott was pretty impressed with how well it turned out. But he’d also been a bit sad that their decision meant they’d never get around to covering the original lyrics.

So Jonathon’s news should have been gratifying; a slight delay that in Scott’s opinion could give them a far better track in the long run. The problem is that Scott’s not sure he can give Hallelujah the power it deserves right now. He’d hoped for about a half a second that they could mix his chorus and background vocals from the recorded version and just redo his verse, but quickly realized the emotional tone would be all wrong. Cohen’s version needs anguish, pain, and confusion, not reverence, peace, and joy. Hence tonight’s session.

On the upside, he’s way better at emoting anguish, pain, and confusion than he used to be. Let’s hear it for emotional growth.

Hoo-fucking-ray.

Drying himself is still a struggle, and once he heads to his room to find some clothes, he looks literally insane trying to put on a pair of jeans. But at least he’s now able to use his left hand just enough to do it by himself, so it’s a gratifying improvement. As for shirts, he’s long since worked out that wearing a loose tank and putting a button up shirt over it without bothering to do it up is the easiest combination to manage.  And he’s basically a pro at getting his sling back on over his clothes. Small victories, right?

He heads back to the bathroom to wrestle his hair into something approaching presentable. That goes well enough, except while he’s doing it his gaze falls on the scars along his left cheek and jaw. Most of the time he’s able to ignore them, to not think about them. He hasn’t been spending a lot of time looking in mirrors since he hasn’t been going out all that much. And since he also hasn’t been very active on social media lately, he hasn’t been taking regular selfies either.

It’s not like the scars are even that bad, the ones on his face. He’s not like, disfigured or anything. Most of them aren’t even as prominent as the one on Kirstie’s lip, with the exception of one that runs along the bottom of his jaw, still visible even through his scruff. It’s just…they look foreign to him. Like they’re not a real part of his face, at least not his understanding of his face. And he can’t seem to make their existence merge with his perception.

Basically he hates them. And that’s before he starts thinking about the far more prominent ones all over his shoulder and upper arm, although at least those are under his clothes.

Scott’s still staring into the mirror when Mitch leans through the doorway. “You ready?”

Not really. “Should I…should I try to cover them?”

Mitch looks confused for a second before his gaze follows Scott’s in the mirror. “Oh.” He comes farther into the room, wrapping his arm around Scott’s waist and leaning on his good shoulder, brown eyes making contact with blue in the mirror. “Um, that’s up to you, babe. It’s your face, not mine. You know I’ll support whatever you choose.”

Reassuring, but not really helpful. Mitch’s scars are barely visible now, even without any makeup. And while he still usually wears concealer and sometimes foundation, Scott doesn’t think he’s putting any extra effort into intentionally minimizing them.

Scott’s scars, however, are more obvious. “But if it _was_ your face, would you?”

Mitch hesitates. He looks like he’s seriously considering the question, which Scott appreciates. “Honestly? Probably.”

Great. That’s…good to know. He’ll just...he’ll cover them.

“But I’d end up regretting that decision,” Mitch says.

Or not? “Why?”

Mitch smiles ruefully. “I’d eventually get sick of dealing with it every time I wanted to run to Starbucks or to rehearsal. And so then there’d be snaps and random fan or pap photos floating around and people would be talking about why I’m hiding my scars and debating whether I’m insecure or ashamed or just vain. And then they’d be accusing me of promoting unrealistic standards of beauty or wondering if the label or the rest of the group is pressuring me to maintain a certain look or tweeting me bullshit remedies that they swear will fix everything and they’re the only one who knows the secret.”

Scott…hadn’t thought of any of that. The scars will continue to fade over the next few months, but he’ll have most of those that remain for the rest of his life. Which means if he hides them he either has to keep doing it forever, or come out about it at some point, either inadvertently or on purpose. And if there’s anything Scott hates doing, it’s being expected to officially reveal things that are no one else’s business.

“And hopefully,” Mitch continues, breaking eye contact with Scott’s reflection and turning toward Scott himself. “My perfect, talented, incredibly attractive boyfriend would eventually convince me that even though the scars change my appearance, they don’t detract from it.” He reaches up and traces his fingers along Scott’s cheek, turning his head towards him before continuing down over his collarbone and gently coming to rest on Scott’s upper arm, over the top of what remains of his sleeve, right where the worst of his scarring is. “And that I’m still as handsome and sexy as I ever was.”

“I am?” Scott really wishes that had come out more ‘idle curiosity’ and less ‘desperate vulnerability’.

“Scott, you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” Mitch says. “Both before and after the crash.”

_That_ is clearly a lie. Scott has seen some of the models Mitch follows on Instagram who, let’s face it, are objectively more beautiful than Scott. And also there’s a mirror literally two feet from them and Scott is most definitely not the most beautiful person in it.

But Scott also has a lot of experience with Mitch trying to bullshit him, and he doesn’t seem to be doing so right now. Mitch lifts up on his toes and kisses him, soft and warm, and Scott feels his eyes starting to prickle with tears. “You’re going to make me cry right before we film.”

Mitch presses one more kiss to Scott’s lips before his smile slides into a smirk. “I’m just telling it like it is. You’re the one who’s a fucking mess.”

And there’s the Mitch he knows and loves. “Wow. Drag me.”

Mitch’s smirk widens and Scott gets another kiss for his efforts. The levity thankfully helps him blink back the tears before he really does look a mess. Their Starbucks arrives right about then, thank fuck, and Mitch runs upstairs to get it.

Scott doesn’t cover his scars. He does, however, try to minimize the bags under his eyes; a single night of decent sleep can’t hide two months’ worth of exhaustion.

Self-acceptance: a work in progress.

“Hi, welcome to Superfruit,” he announces once they’re set up and he’s inhaled the breakfast sandwich and donut Mitch was kind enough to order for him. “The best show that used to be on the internet. My name is Proximal Humerus.”

“And my name is Utterly Fucked Up.”

“And together we are my motherfucking shoulder.”

Mitch takes a sip of his iced coffee. “That’s a lot of strawberries already.”

“Sometimes you just have a strawberry sort of day.”

“Or a strawberry sort of year.”

“Basically our lives have been one big-ass strawberry lately.”

“Mmm yes, and my ass finally got a taste of your big strawberry this morning.”

Scott can’t help covering his face with his hand as he laughs. “We are _not_ saying that.”

“You’re right, we’re not.” Mitch grins, unrepentant. “We should berry it out though instead of cutting it. Let the kids wonder what horribly inappropriate thing I said to make you blush like that.”

“Oh, hell yes.” Scott agrees. Then he smirks. “Couldn’t help but notice you said ‘a taste of your _big_ strawberry’.”

“Hmm.” Mitch wrinkles his nose and puts on a confused expression. “I think I might have exaggerated. Need to keep your ego up and all.”

Nice. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t make fun.”

“And I thought this was safely within the five percent of the time when I could. Or are you hard for me again already?”

Not yet, although if Mitch keeps shifting in his seat like that… “You’re talking like someone who doesn’t want any more tastes of my strawberry.”

Mitch flutters his eyelashes in an insincere apology. “I’m _so_ sorry, baby. You have the biggest, juiciest strawberry ever. Can I please taste it again?”

Annnnd Scott needs a change of subject. Immediately. “ _Anyway_ , this isn’t going to be our best, longest, most content-filled video. We just thought we’d just give a quick update and let y’all know that we’re still alive.”

Mitch winces. “You need to rephrase that.”

“What?”

“’Let y’all know that we’re still alive’ is only cute when it’s an obvious exaggeration. Not when the fandom literally thought you were dead for a while.”

Scott does tend to forget that part. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Scott swallows and turns back to the camera. “We just thought we’d give a quick update to let y’all know how we’re doing and that despite appearances we’re working hard on new music and I’m working hard on getting well enough to start performing again.”

“I miss performing,” Mitch says.

Yes, but probably not as much as Scott does. “Me too.”

“We’re sorry to anyone who had tickets for the tour legs we had to cancel. We’re hoping to figure something out to make it up to you.”

Esther’s already trying to plan a spring tour through most of the North American cities they had to cancel, with Asia and Oceania hopefully over the summer once Scott’s PT schedule has slowed down. Scott is all for it.

“Really, really sorry.” Scott waves his hand over his sling. “For those of you who don’t already know what my new fashion accessory here is about…”

“And if you don’t, you’re a fake fan,” Mitch says under his breath.

“Wow,” Scott says, blinking. “You can’t say that.”

“Can and will, hunty.” Mitch smiles at the camera like he’s apologizing, which he most certainly _is not_.

“For anyone who doesn’t keep track of our lives on the _daily_ ,” Scott corrects, glaring pointedly at Mitch. “And there’s nothing wrong with _not_ , we were in a car crash in August that, um, didn’t go so well for me.”

“Understatement.”

“I’m going to be fine”—assuming PT goes as well as hoped—“but not for a while yet, which is why we had to cancel the rest of our world tour and we why haven’t been filming Superfruit lately.”

“Lately meaning like nine weeks in a row.”

Not that he’s been counting. “Now, before you get your hopes up, we’re probably not going to be posting weekly again just yet. I’ve got like a million medical and physical therapy appointments taking up my time and we’re working hard trying to catch up and get the Christmas album out before, y’know, Christmas.”

Mitch points at Scott. “And this girl right here obviously still needs more sleep.”

Scott’s mouth falls open. “Okay, rude.”

“What?” Mitch blinks innocently. “I’m just saying.”

Seriously? “You don’t like it when people say _you_ look tired.”

“Genetics means I always look tired. You’re actually tired when you look tired,” he pauses, probably to ensure his next sentence can easily be edited out. “And if we don’t hang a lantern on it, they’ll just fret and tweet about how you’re pushing yourself too hard and why aren’t you resting more and by the way can we hurry the fuck up on the album because they _need_ it.”

Mitch may have a point. “Well, it’s true I do still need a lot of sleep,” Scott concedes, looking back at the camera. “My endurance is complete shit.”

“It’s true, it is.” Mitch’s gaze wanders down Scott’s body and back up again. “We need to work on your _stamina_.”

That little fucker. “I’ll show you stamina.”

Mitch head tilts back and he lets his mouth fall open, in a way that has Scott’s dick perking up and proving his point about still having some stamina. “I’m ready, big boy.” Then he frowns and looks at Scott. “Can we leave that in? I would have said something like that before we got together, wouldn’t I?”

“I think so?” They’ve always been sexual and flirty, but the line has moved and he can’t tell if they’re dialing it down far enough to avoid looking suspicious or too far and yet again looking suspicious. “Yes? Yes.”

Mitch still looks unsure. “We can decide when we see the playback.”

Probably wise. “But we’re finally starting to make some real progress on the Christmas album; I’ve got another recording session tonight, well a couple of days ago by the time you’re watching this, and we’ll hopefully be filming a video next week. Don’t get too excited though, because it won’t release until the album does, and we don’t have a date for that yet.”

“I love releasing.”

“Girl, I know.” Scott says, smirking. Then he winces because Jesus, they are _bad_ at this. Time to change the subject. _Again_. “So, I know some of y’all have been curious about what exactly I did to myself. I broke my proximal humerus, which is the ball at the end of your upper arm that fits into your shoulder socket.”

“And by broke, he means into three pieces,” Mitch clarifies.

Not helpful.

“Into three pieces,” Scott concedes. “Well, and a fourth one if you count the fracture farther down my arm…never mind. So I needed surgery and some very fancy, very ugly screws and until recently I had this entire scaffold thing around my shoulder to hold stuff together, all of which is exactly as painful as it sounds. I do not recommend the experience. Not that I was awake for the actual screwing, of course, but you get what I mean.”

Mitch looks away and his shoulders start to shake. He’s...he’s laughing? Yep, he’s laughing into his hand. That seems odd, given that he normally takes reminders about the seriousness of Scott’s injuries very seriously.

“What?”

“Damn, I could have sworn you were awake. You were doing all that talking and cussing and moaning…”

Scott blinks at him, confused. He doesn’t remember anything before waking up in his hospital room with his parents, but he knows the doctors would have sedated him for surgery, so he shouldn’t have been able to cuss...

And then he rewinds what he just said in his head. God damn it.

Mitch, meanwhile, is biting his lip and breathily panting “Yeah, Mitch, that’s it. Come on. Give it to me.”

Scott covers his face with his hand and just laughs. They are never, ever going to get through this episode.

Except they do, eventually. It takes like two hours to get what Scott thinks is about five minutes of useable content. He ends it by choosing PT as his weekly obsession—after deciding his first response of ‘Mitch’s ass’ is probably over the line, all things considered—and The Greatest as his song of the week.

Thank God they have three days to edit it before Tuesday because it’s going to take forever and they can’t exactly offload this one to Shawn. What with all the sexually explicit humor. And, well, the making out they got distracted by in the middle when the teasing went a little too far.

Scott’s totally keeping that part of the video for himself.

When they do finally manage to wrap it, it’s almost time to get to the studio. Which is disappointing, since Scott was kind of hoping to mess Mitch up again before they go. Probably for the best, though. He’s going to need all the energy he can scrape together for this as it is.

They stop by In-N-Out on the way, because Mitch clearly loves Scott and Chipotle is hard to eat one-handed in a car. The very fact that Mitch is tagging along simply for moral support is a pretty big clue too, honestly. He’s already finished his part on the track.

They’re only ten minutes late to the studio, which is enough of a record that Ben actually looks surprised when they get there. He and Peter, the audio engineer, still have everything set up and ready though, because as always they’re far better at the whole adulting thing than Scott and Mitch.

It goes well for a while. Scott settles into the live room, does his best to find a comfortable position. They do a few runs through each verse, breaking in between to dissect what needs to be changed and how Scott can do it better. The others have all already recorded their parts, which is great as he can hear the playback of the mix or whichever one he needs most in his ear as he sings. He gets through Avi’s verse easily enough, all things considered. He’s always preferred recording in order to keep the emotional flow of a song right in his head, but he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to hit the bass notes properly, so they do that first. His own verse is more challenging; he keeps pronouncing ‘secret’ as ‘sacred’, because he learned it wrong a million years ago and apparently that fact overrides the lyrics he’s currently staring at. Even Ben’s obviously frustrated, although he’s just as obviously trying to hide it, by the time they’re able to move on to Kirstie’s verse.

By the time they’ve reached the outro, more than an hour and a half after they started, he’s exhausted. And he still has all the belting to do. They probably should have done that second, to be honest, but Scott wanted to preserve the order as much as he could. Because apparently he’s an overconfident idiot.

The second time through it, Scott can feel his voice starting to fail, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t at least going to try to finish the take. He feels tense and strained; his shoulder and back are both killing him, and the goddamn repetition of “hallelujah” is fucking with his head. He can’t do anything but try to get it out, to let all the pain and frustration and stress flood out to ebb and flow into the tiny sound room and the mic hanging in front of him.

When he finally reaches the end, when the last note of harmonized humming fades away, he waits a beat to give the recording a crisp stop before he’s basically panting in an attempt to replenish his air supply. He feels weak and drained and emotionally extinguished.

He opens his eyes and finds Ben, Peter, and Mitch all staring at him, wide-eyed. Ben’s mouth is even hanging open.

Shit.

“Was it that bad?”

It was probably that bad.

Fuck. Scott doesn’t think he has it in him to do another take tonight, let alone a good one. But they really, really need to get this fucking thing finished. “Shit, sorry. I need…” Air. He needs air. And a Celebrex. Maybe the entire world’s supply of Celebrex. “I need like a ten minute break and then I can try again. Was any of it useable? Do we have enough for a decent composite from the two takes? Or do we need to—”

“Scott!” Ben interrupts, still wide-eyed. “That was the take we needed. That might have been the best take of your career. And I mean your entire career, not just the part of it you’ve already done.”

But…what? “I don’t understand.”

“He means that was the best thing you’ve ever sung,” Mitch says, already getting up from the couch behind the control board and striding directly into the live room and Scott’s personal space. He cups Scott’s jaw in his palm and gently tilts his head up to look at him. “That was beautiful, babe.”

Scott blinks up at him stupidly. “But… but my voice gave out?”

Mitch shakes his head. “It didn’t give out, Scotty. It was rough and raw and _so_ fucking gorgeous. It was perfect.”

Gorgeous is good. Gorgeous means… “Am I done, then? I wanna be done, Mitch.”

Ben’s voice comes over the intercom again. “It’d be best if we could get one more take of the bassline in Avi’s verse.”

Scott closes his eyes in dismay.

“Ben,” Mitch says sharply, even as the hand not already on Scott’s jaw comes up to support the back of his head. Scott feels himself relax into him, probably couldn’t have resisted doing so even if he tried. “Look at him. He’s hurting. He’s exhausted. You can comp the damn bassline.”

Ben and Peter talk for a long moment, Scott can’t quite make out what they’re saying. He doesn’t really even care much because Mitch is petting the back of his head and practically holding him upright on the stool. But eventually Ben’s voice says. “Alright, we should have enough. Take him home. I’ll let y’all know if we need anything else in the morning.”

Oh, thank _fuck_.

Mitch gets him his meds, bundles him into the car, puts on a playlist of Scott’s favorite songs for the drive home, and is generally the fucking amazing queen that he is.

It’s not far from the studio to their house, and Scott is actually able to stay awake during the drive. It’s the getting out of the car and all the way into the house part that he’s not looking forward to. “Carry me downstairs?” he asks as Mitch pulls into their garage.

That gets him a snort. “Like I could carry your fat ass anywhere.”

Wow. “ _Rude._ ”

Mitch smirks as he puts the car in park and turns to Scott. “Tell you what. You help me out by getting yourself inside and stay awake long enough for some pizza to get here, and I’ll let you eat it in bed.”

“Mmm.” Not a bad offer; Mitch is normally vehemently opposed to anyone besides himself eating in his bed. Well, eating _food_. Scott got cookie crumbs on his comforter once like seven years ago and still hasn’t heard the end of it. “Deal.”

Scott’s able to fulfill his end of the bargain, even managing to get himself undressed before climbing into bed. But it’s close. Despite the fact he hasn’t eaten in hours, it’s only two slices of pizza, half an episode of Stranger Things, and a cuddle with Mitch later before

**Blink.**

  


 

  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	12. Realignment

**My thanks to[silentdescant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant)**   **for the much, much needed beta.**

Scott wakes up lying on his side hugging Mitch's pillow, in a phenomenally good mood despite the fact that Mitch himself has clearly already gotten out of bed. It takes him a moment to realize why he's in such good spirits all by himself and before he's even had caffeine. Then the date sinks in; it's the first day of the rescheduled world tour. They have a concert in LA tonight and then they're immediately heading out on the bus for seven weeks of shows across the US with a brief detour into Canada.  He's going to get to  _perform._ On a big stage. With production and lights and screaming fans and four of his best friends beside him and a bunch more of them behind the scenes.

Fucking  _finally_.

However, it also means he has to get up and finish packing at some point this morning.  Which, ugh.

He debates joining Mitch in the shower, then remembers Mitch was planning to shave his legs this morning and the one time he made the mistake of trying to interrupt  _that_ process was more than enough.  So instead he gets up, puts on some boxers, and meanders over to the exercise equipment in the corner of the room.

His shoulder has about as much mobility as they expect him to regain at this point, which is thankfully nearly all of it, although he still struggles with strength, endurance, and discomfort at the edges of his range. His bone is fully healed, realigned perfectly, however the muscle damage he took means things like push-ups and chin-ups might be off his list of manageable exercises forever. Which kinda sucks because he was once pretty good at both. But he's got an array of dumbbells, pulleys, and resistance bands set up, all of which let him strength train everything with minimal risk to his shoulder, provided he uses them properly. Farah recommended the whole set up and worked with him to develop routines that have helped  _a lot_. Honestly, between the gear and a new treadmill they keep upstairs, he's looking more snatched than he ever has in his life.

The other bonus is Mitch unexpectedly likes the new strength-training gear too, to the point where he's also using it regularly. He's not trying to bulk up to the extent that Scott has, but his new toned look is fantastic. Scott often spends the 5% of the time that he's not thinking about sucking Mitch's dick thinking about licking his way up Mitch's more sharply defined v-line and six-pack instead.

First world problems, right? If the first world was located in a gutter as deep as his brain.

In other news, Scott  _really_ likes Farah and her suggestions. She's pretty much surpassed healthcare provider status at this point and is solidly in the friend category for him. He's going to miss her a lot while he's away, although they've scheduled a few FaceTime follow-ups and she's helped him sort out a travel set of resistance bands and weights small enough to use in the back lounge of the bus or in a hotel or dressing room. Between those and the equipment in hotel gyms, he should be good to go for maintaining his PT needs on the road.

He and Farah got along well from the start; her sense of humor meshes well with his, and frankly almost anyone would have been a welcome improvement after Jessica. But there'd been a moment, brief yet memorable, where they'd really connected.  He'd had an appointment with her the morning of November 9th, right after the election. Scott had been exhausted; he'd stayed up late watching the results, growing more and more nauseous as the night wore on. He'd barely caught two hours of sleep, and it had been restless and anxious at best. So when he'd entered the clinic, shell-shocked and sleep-deprived, he'd met the eyes of someone just as tired and uneasy as him. It had only lasted a few seconds, that silent empathy for the differing yet relatable uncertainty in what the future now held for them, openly gay or obviously Muslim.

Then they'd gotten started on Scott's shoulder and things had gone back to relatively normal. But he hadn't forgotten that spontaneous moment of mutual solidarity. He probably never would.

Scott's still in a bit of shock over the election, honestly, even three months into the new term. He can't quite believe what happened. That his country, his fellow citizens, parts of his  _family_ voted like this. He spends quite a bit of his time trying not to think about it, honestly, but he's also feeling a little guilty. He'd voted himself of course, for the first time in his life, and he's glad that he did. He and Mitch even posted a selfie of themselves with their little "I voted!" stickers, which the fans had eaten up because Scott still hadn't returned to his regular levels of social media activity at the time.

Rock the Vote had asked him for an interview, back in September, to talk about what issues were important to him and to try to drive home to his followers and fellow millennials the importance of being engaged in politics and political decisions.

He'd said no. They'd wanted to do it the week of his birthday and he'd been frustrated and tired and hurting and angry over the fixation device not coming off as scheduled and he just couldn't handle one more thing adding to his stress. He wasn't doing interviews, wasn't doing appearances, wasn't even on social media in any sort of public way.

But now he wonders. He knows it couldn't have changed the result; the Electoral College wasn't close enough for any contribution Scott could have possibly made to have that much of a difference. Hell,  _Beyoncé_  couldn't even make the difference. Yet he didn't do everything he could and that  _eats_  at him.

He sighs and shakes his head. He's not going to spend today moping about shit he can't change when he should be riding on the high of his life coming back together.  He continues working on a set of bicep curls and is just finishing up the whole upper body routine when their obnoxiously loud doorbell rings.

The sound of the shower abruptly cuts off. "I ordered coffee!" Mitch yells through the bathroom door. "Can you get it?"

Is he kidding? He knows for a fact Mitch can't hear him exercising from the actual shower, not when he's way over in the corner and not swearing up a storm. Multiple instances of Mitch coming out and nagging him to do exercises he's just finished have taught him that, so he calls back "How'd you even know I'm awake?"

"You answered me, bitch!"

He walked right into that one. Scott rolls his eyes, grabs his robe and makes his way upstairs. Their Postmates driver is someone they've had before, thankfully, so he doesn't even bat an eye at Scott or his attire or the eon it took him to answer the door. Scott's going to make Mitch give him a larger than normal tip anyway to compensate for the hassle of dealing with their eccentricity on multiple occasions.

Still, an iced latte is much appreciated this morning. Scott takes a long, glorious sip and wanders back downstairs to leave Mitch's iced coffee on his nightstand. Then he heads to his old room to see what else he still needs to pack. Most of his things are still over here because there's isn't enough room in master bedroom's limited storage space for even Mitch's clothes, never mind Scott's. They should probably do something about that at some point; it's not like they can't afford to install a few wardrobes and shelving units. It's just that they've been too busy (okay, lazy) to bother.

Scott's suitcases are lying open on his bed, half full of tour clothes and toiletries and all the odds and ends he'll need for two months on the road.

He snorts as he spies Blue Monstrosity, the upholstered robot masquerading as a chair, shoved into the corner of his room where she's mostly out of the way.  She'll be gone by the time they get back, thank fuck, donated to charity where she'll hopefully find someone that appreciates her more, or at least someone who needs her like Scott once did.

Good riddance.

Although...it would be a shame to send her off without at least one good memory, right? Scott's been reading more motivational books than usual the last few months, and the concept of realigning a bad experience as a good one, reframing a perceived weakness into emotional strength has kind of stuck with him. He ponders the chair for a moment and then goes to his closet for a spare sheet, draping it over Blue and pulling her a bit farther out from the wall.

Then he heads back to the master bedroom for three necessities.

Mitch has emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and is happily drinking his coffee and perusing his clothing choices for the day. Scott grabs the lube and a condom out of his nightstand, and then latches onto Mitch's wrist on his way back out the door, tugging him gently behind him.

"Uh," Mitch says, after he manages to swallow his interrupted mouthful of coffee. "You gonna tell me what you're doing?"

"Yep," Scott replies. He drops Mitch's wrist, then his robe, and finally his boxers. Then he sits on Blue and smirks. "Come here and cuddle me."

"Cuddle, huh?" Mitch's expression is serious as he slowly puts down his coffee, but Scott can hear the smile in his voice. "Is that a euphemism?"

"It absolutely is." Scott reaches out and takes Mitch's hand, pulling him closer until he's standing between Scott's legs at just the right height. "It means 'Come get your dick sucked and then sit on mine so I can fuck you in my ugly blue robot chair thing'."

Mitch hums appreciatively. "Well, when you put it that way."

Scott smirks up at him as he undoes the towel around his waist, leaning into the hands that come up to cradle his face. "It's all in the marketing."

"I love me an entrepreneur."

Scott takes a moment to appreciate the sight in front of him, the cock slowly filling out mere inches from his nose, the chest already starting to rise and fall more rapidly, the beautiful face high above him, peering down at him, lip caught between white teeth in anticipation.

They've been at this for months, teasing and pleasuring each other whenever they can take the time to do so. And yet a part of Scott still finds it surreal that he can do this. That he doesn't have to swallow his true feelings for the sake of their friendship anymore.

He's got better things to swallow these days. Which he sets about doing, sucking the head of Mitch's cock into his mouth and reveling in the gorgeous moan it earns him. He smiles, as well as he can, when Mitch's hands tangle in his hair, holding him in place.

After a few moments of licking and sucking, he blindly reaches for the lube, slicking the fingers of one hand and trailing them up the inside of Mitch's thigh. Mitch immediately widens his stance and Scott rewards him by sinking his middle finger in as deep as he can all in one go.

Their sex life is great, far more varied now that Scott's no longer fragile. He's still more limited than he'd like; his shoulder is no longer debilitating but it aches if he pushes too far even now. The most irritating issue is his inability to hold the missionary position for long. He can manage it if his weight is on his elbows for longer than he can up on straight arms, yet either way he inevitably has to change their position after only a few moments, which kind of sucks because he really, really likes having Mitch under him.

It's not really that much of a problem though, more of a creativity enhancer than a true obstacle. One they've solved in all sorts of interesting ways, like Scott fucking Mitch over the kitchen island so he doesn't have to balance on a soft mattress, or, y'know, coaxing him into his lap in an ugly-ass recliner.

Scott slides another finger in and clamps down on Mitch's hip with his free hand when an involuntary flex pushes him deeper than Scott was ready for. He backs off, licking just the head of Mitch's cock, and looks up at him, enjoys the glazed, blown out pupils staring back at him. Then he tilts his head and lets Mitch slide all the way in, crooks his fingers just so and revels in the gasped moan he earns for his trouble.

"Fuck." Mitch is biting his lip again. He thrusts slowly, fucking himself into Scott's mouth and then back onto his fingers. "Fuck, Scotty. I'm going to come like this."

Well, that won't do. Scott pulls back, letting Mitch's cock drop from his mouth. "No, you won't."

"I won't?" Mitch's grip tightens in Scott's hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. It's glorious.

Scott pulls his fingers out, only so he can slide in a third. "You're not coming until you beg me for it."

"Oh fuck." Mitch's head falls back, hard cock bobbing in front of Scott's face. "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

Scott licks it again, sucks the tip briefly before releasing it with a pop. "Yep."

He holds Mitch's hip for another moment, steadying him, watching him squirm and gasp on his fingers, before pulling them out. After wiping his hand on the sheet and sorting out the condom, he slumps down, increasing the angle of his lap. Then he turns Mitch around and tugs him backwards, smiling at the moan Mitch gives when he works out the plan.

It takes a few moments for Mitch to settle onto him, whining and panting as he slowly takes him in. Scott braces as much of Mitch's weight as he can, helps him slow his descent when his thighs and his hands on the armrests start to shake. When he's finally fully seated, when his muscles stop trembling and his breathing slows, Scott wraps an arm around his torso to hold him close and uses the remote to recline them.

The chair is as slow as Scott remembers, ridiculously so, but it's not a detriment in this case. The gradually changing angle is an  _experience_ , one that has Scott shuddering with want and which Mitch also appreciates if his loud, low groan as he's slowly sprawled out on top of Scott is anything to go by.

Eventually they're all the way back. Scott tosses the remote onto the floor beside them and cuddles Mitch closer with both hands. "Fuck, you feel so good."

"Yeah," Mitch sighs. "I really do."

Scott slides his hands down Mitch's chest, over his hips to his thighs, and tugs until they're draped across his legs, hanging down from both sides of the footrest. It opens him up, makes him more vulnerable to Scott's wandering hands, with the added benefit of reducing Mitch's leverage and thus his control.

Mitch's fingers tighten on the sheet-covered armrests, and Scott hums approval. "Yeah. Keep your hands right there. Let me take care of you."

Mitch wiggles a bit and then relaxes. "Please, Daddy."

Fuck, that's never going to get old. Scott starts out slow, teasing his way up sensitive skin of Mitch's spread thighs, pausing at his hips to tug him more firmly onto his dick before taking hold of his cock with his right hand and sliding his left down to play with his balls.

Scott keeps his grip loose, fingers light. He pauses after a moment to get some lube—he's going to draw this out for as long as possible and chaffing isn't hot  _at all_ —before he's back at it, gliding his palm gently up and down Mitch's cock.

It's rewarding that it only takes a few strokes for Mitch to start to writhe for him. For his hips to start making small, impatient circles. For his back to arch. For his lips to part in a gasp. For his bared neck to suddenly become vulnerable to Scott's tongue and teeth.

The circling of Mitch's hips steadily becomes stronger, changing from a helpless squirm to a dedicated ride. Scott presses his own hips up at a slower pace, perhaps once for every three of Mitch's, timing it so he's at the perfect angle to drag his cock across Mitch's prostate in long, tormenting strokes. His hands are still teasing Mitch's cock and balls, sometimes delving down to press against his perineum or entrance. All of it together has Mitch's breathing rapidly descending into involuntary grunts and sighs.

Scott keeps it up, maintaining his pace until the circles start to lose their rhythm, until the sighs are more like gasps. He lets Mitch build up to the edge, lets him get closer and closer until it's clear he's about to fall, and then he lets go, abandoning his cock and everything else to clamp his hands on Mitch's hips, stilling their movement and leaving him hanging.

"No," Mitch complains, trying in vain to keep moving. "What are you doing?"

"Playing." Scott nuzzles behind his ear. "You ready to beg yet?"

Mitch's hands leave the armrests and settle on Scott's right wrist and left bicep as he cranes his head around to look him in the eye. "Fuck you."

Scott laughs and nips at Mitch's earlobe in retaliation, making his hands tighten, oblivious to the scars and ink twisting under his fingers.

Scott's sleeve looks great now, if he does say so himself. He went to see Romeo in mid-February, once his scars had finished healing, convinced it could never be fully repaired. And in a way he was right; the original design couldn't really be salvaged. Romeo had ended up calling another artist, a guy out of Philadelphia, who does both amazing designs and has extensive experience covering scars. Between the two of them, they adapted a new design around Romeo's damaged original and the scar tissue woven throughout it. Scott's monochrome black flowers are no longer ripped and torn, but stitched together by a rainbow of inked ribbons that run all through them, some along the lines of scars themselves, some just completing an aesthetically pleasing pattern. He's also added his father's section and his own asters, finally, in and around the scars and ribbons, and while they're not quite the same as originally planned either, they work beautifully.

Scott fucking loves it. He might even love it more than the original design because although the sleeve already had a ton of meaning, now it represents how his family held him together, how they helped him heal. And how his life was both torn apart and made infinitely brighter because of the accident.

Mitch called him a fucking sap over that last bit and Scott laughed and pretended not to notice him blinking back pleased tears and smiling at the ribbons whenever he thought Scott wasn't looking.

Scott's thinking of adding smaller flowers for Landon, Zachary, and brand new Archer in amongst the others, now that the original intent is completed, leaving room for any additional kids his sisters might have, of course. He's also already had Romeo plan out a water lily, although he won't actually add that one until he manages to drag Mitch to an altar; he doesn't want to jinx it. Still, the sleeve is going to look great once the lily is nestled in amongst his asters where it belongs.

Almost as great as it looks peeking out through the fingers that clench ever tighter around his bicep the longer he delays.

"God, I love you," he confesses, unable to stop himself.

"I love you too," Mitch says as he turns back around, rocking more forcefully against Scott's hold. "Fucking  _move_."

So Scott does. He lets go of Mitch's hips, lets him restart his ride. Smooths his hands all over him and his cock up into him. Takes hold of his dick and jerks him off until he's once more straining and shaking and so very close.

Then he stops him again.

And then again.

Mitch's breathing is shaky, but that doesn't stop him from very clearly stating "I'm going to fucking kill you."

"No you won't, we have a show to do." Scott smirks into Mitch's neck as he once more lets him restart his thrusts. "We're going to be on stage tonight, Mitchy. You're going to be dancing, rolling your hips just like this in front of the entire crowd."

"Oh God." Mitch's head lolls across Scott's collarbone. "I'll ache and twinge every time I move. I'll still be able to feel you."

Scott can't help but groan a little at that thought. He turns his head to trail his lips up Mitch's jawline to his ear. "Thousands of people are going to be watching you dance and none of them will know. Some might think about it, wonder, but they won't  _know_."

Mitch shudders in his arms. "Deep as a swimming pool."

"Yeah yeah." Scott shakes his arm free of Mitch's hold and loops it across his chest again, pulling him closer. He trails his right hand, Mitch's still clamped around his wrist, back down to start stroking his cock again. " _I'll_ know. Fuck, it's all I'm going to be able to think about."

"Good thing—” Mitch breaks off in a hiss at a particularly good thrust. "Good thing Candice always puts you in those long shirts, huh?"

Scott laughs. "Right. It's never been a fashion statement, it's always been about concealing boners."

"I knew it," Mitch pants. "Drop crotch pants are good for something."

When Scott stops him again a few moments later, Mitch's whine of protest is beautiful, although Scott's now having has to bite deeper and deeper into his own lip to back himself off the edge too.

"S'okay," Scott hushes him, smoothing his hands over Mitch's torso, circling his sensitive nipples with his thumbs. "What do you need?"

"Fuck, need to come." His breathing is harsh now and he's literally shaking with need. "Please. Please, please let me come.  I can't—God,  _please._ "

That's it. That's what Scott was hoping for. High-pitched and wavering and desperate.

"Yes, baby," he says, lips tracing Mitch's ear, fingers tracing his balls. He smooths his other hand over Mitch's quivering belly, pulling his body tighter against Scott's before closing his fist around his cock one last time and finally providing the friction he needs for as long as he needs it. He tilts his hips up in time with Mitch's, no longer slowing their pace, enjoying the soft, tremulous grunts each thrust earns. "You can come this time, Mitchy. You've been so good for me. Come on, let me feel you."

Scott can't get enough of this. How Mitch feels as he comes, how he looks, fuck, how he  _sounds_. Mitch's shaking gets more intense and a soft whine starts in the back of his throat and culminates in a sharp, wordless cry through clenched teeth as the pleasure finally overwhelms him. Scott lives for that sound. His neck muscles tighten under Scott's lips and his cock stills and then drips over Scott's hand. Scott is so enraptured by the sight and sound and feel and smell of him that he almost doesn't notice his own orgasm approaching.

It's inevitable, though. It always is. Scott finally gives in, driving his hips up and into Mitch as hard as he can and even faster, unable to exhibit even an ounce more control. Fuck control, it's overrated anyway.

Mitch pants harshly, chest still heaving, ass still fluttering. He turns his head to press wet, filthy kisses along Scott's jawline. "That's it, daddy," he groans in Scott's ear, grunting as he rides each sudden, hard thrust. "Fuck, that's it, sweetheart. Come for me, Scotty. Come in me. Now."

"Fuck, you feel so good," Scott's babbling now, not even sure what he's saying. "You're so good. I'm gonna—Fuck Mitch, yesss!"

Scott's vision and muscles and mental faculties all short out as he comes hard, clutching Mitch to him like a lifeline. He's not sure how long it lasts, just a brief moment or most of eternity, but eventually it fades, leaving him fuzzy and sated and as content as he's ever been.

Mitch hums and relaxes, languid and sprawling like a warm blanket on top of him. It lasts maybe an entire, blissful minute before he sighs, "I'm going to have shower again, you fucking deviant."

Scott grins and smooths his hand—his sticky, gross, come-covered hand—up Mitch's chest, dirtying him up even more in a very, very gratifying way. "I could wash your back for you."

"Ew," Mitch says, pushing Scott's hand away when it gets too close to his face. " _Gay._ "

"I'm not gay," Scott insists, grinning into Mitch's neck and tilting his hips up one last time. "I just really like the sensation of my dick being up another man's ass."

"Oh, okay." Mitch says, clenching said ass and making Scott groan. "No homo, bro."

The ride upright as Blue Monstrosity slowing inclines is hilarious, even more so when Mitch insists they go full out and use the standing assist feature, giggling the entire way. It ends in Mitch literally falling off of Scott's dick and onto the floor, which sets them both howling, Scott bent over gasping for air and Mitch on his knees and elbows, cry-laughing into the floor.

Scott's going to have  _really_  good memories of the upholstered robot now, that's for sure. Mission accomplished.

They shower together, trading slow, perfect kisses under the cascading water as they clean each other up, soapy fingers smoothing and trailing everywhere they can reach. It's intimate and sensual and fucking  _perfect_.

They can't stay in there forever, though; they need to get moving so they can finish packing and get to the venue for final prep and the VIP stuff and styling, et cetera. So once they're out of the shower, Scott puts on some music to help motivate them, gets dressed, and takes a vid of the scattered, half-packed mess that is his old bedroom—after dumping the sheet still covering Blue into the bag for his laundry service—and posting it to his insta story with a tiny white "i forget how to do this" up the side of his closest suitcase.

He's back to his usual amounts of content on twitter and Instagram. The fans have gotten used to him and his scars; he's no longer constantly inundated by people feeling sorry for him or giving unsolicited advice or comparing his looks before versus after and somehow forgetting that he's a human being with an internet connection so he can see the things they spread around or send him.

Well, not being inundated  _much_.

Deep breath. Let it out. Move on.

Teasing Scomiche is even more fun now that there's actually something real to tease, makes it a game of how much truth they can tell without people realizing it's the truth. They still have no plans to go public with their changed relationship, but the more perceptive fans have already picked up on their increased contentment. The shipping debates are back in full force; all Scott has to do is stare at Mitch a little too hard during Superfruit and then like a fanart or two and he's amused for  _days_. And honestly, the teasing is still a marketing coup even if that part of it is incidental.

Well, mostly incidental. If he can entertain himself, thrill some fans, get an eyeroll out of Mitch,  _and_  increase their brand visibility all at the same time? Bonus.

Which is how he finds himself back in the master bathroom, watching a still-shirtless Mitch gyrating his brief-covered hips and lip-synching "I'm your slave, I'll let you whip me if I misbehave", with Scott leaning over him and mouthing "Uh huh" and "Take it to the chorus" as he films it all in the mirror.

He posts it to his insta story and then sits down on the edge of the tub to wait while Mitch finishes putting on the concealer Nicole's just going to have to remove in order to do his show make up.

The predictable fandom meltdown is instant and hil-fucking-larious and Scott can't even make himself regret it when Jonathon calls ten minutes later and bitches loudly in his ear about overkill and giving him grey hair and having all the subtlety of a closeted subby fuckboi drunkenly stumbling into his first gay-friendly leather bar.

Jonni has really upped his insult game the last few months; Scott's kind of proud of him.

Mitch does indeed roll his eyes and pretends to ignore the whole thing, but the smirk he's wearing every time he checks his phone gives away how much the entire situation is amusing him too.

They eventually manage to finish packing just as their ride arrives. Esther's sent a driver and a second crewmember along; apparently she doesn't trust Scott's promises to a) be ready on time (which  _hello_ , he so was... mostly), and b) not lug his own shit up the stairs (Mitch already reprised that lecture, on the off chance Scott forgot in the twelvish hours it's been since Esther last delivered it).

He can't help but give Hideously Ugly Blue Robot Chair Thing a fond wave on his way out.

The ride to the Staples Center—and holy  _shit_  they sold out the Staples Center—takes about half an hour. Scott's pretty much okay in cars these days, provided he's not the one driving, so he chats comfortably enough with the crew guys and jokes with Mitch and kills time checking Twitter and Instagram.

It still leaves him with far too much time to think.

He can already feel butterflies deep in his gut. He's used to it, or at least he was, but his nerves haven't started this early or been this strong for a couple of years. Not unless they were performing with Stevie Wonder or Harrison Ford was introducing them or they were in a studio with a celeb he never thought they'd get to meet, never mind record with.

There's not even a real reason to be this nervous. Tech rehearsals took place the week before in Nashville and Scott managed to get through the whole show with only minimal difficulties, all of which have been ironed out. His voice is finally back to full strength, thank fuck, and his endurance is coming along nicely. But it doesn't stop him from worrying about tripping over his own feet or dropping his mic or exhausting himself or forgetting how to sing or becoming an emotional wreck in the middle of the show.

Wow, overthinking is fun. Not.

Tennessee was good for more than just tech rehearsals; they also managed to reschedule their collaboration with Dolly Parton. Dolly. Parton. Scott still can't get over that. He's never been the biggest country music fan, but Jolene is a classic and Dolly is one of the original queens of the industry. She was also a joy to work with, sweet, humble, and admiring, and the preliminary mixes they've been sent so far sound  _amazing_.  They'd posted a quick one-take cover of Ed Sheeran's Shape of You the previous week, which was doing very well, but apart from that Jolene will be the first song they've released since Christmas. It'll be good to have some real content coming out again.

The Christmas album had finally been released December 1st, six weeks behind their originally planned date. It had done really well, all things considered, reaching number 1 on the Billboard 200 the week of Christmas. It wasn't quite the platinum they'd hoped for, but sales were still better than expected given they missed half the holiday music season, did hardly any promo, and couldn't do the planned holiday special. Scott's probably the most bitter about that last part. How cool would having their own Christmas special have been?

The videos they'd released had been well received, although the shoot for Hallelujah had been long and arduous for Scott, despite only having to sit on a stool and lip-synch while the others walked in the desert behind him. Watching it still makes him wince; the fresh lines of both scarring and exhaustion on his face are too much for him to take even now. But objectively he can see they struck just the right chord, and he's proved right by how very viral it had gone.

He'd had to avoid the comment section almost entirely though, relying on the others to pass on the ones he'd want to see. Honestly, one more nasty argument about whether he was brave for showing so much vulnerability or taking advantage of a tragedy or downright faking it all for publicity and he'd have screamed.

Mitch apparently had, loud and long, although he was kind enough to do so out of Scott's hearing. Avi's after-the-fact impersonation of his complete diva meltdown was more than enough, while also being one of the funniest things Scott has ever seen. He wishes he had video.

Two weeks after Hallelujah was released, they also managed to record a vid for O Come All Ye Faithful. Scott's continuing improvement, the more comfortable church setting, and the lighter emotional tone had all combined to make it a far easier shoot. The video had turned out well, lighthearted and fun, exactly what Kevin had tried to convey with the arrangement. Their only other video for the album was a cartoon for Good to Be Bad featuring a mischievous chibi Kirstie leading the others into Christmasy mayhem, which had been adorable and hilarious and most importantly had only involved Scott's input for brainstorming and approval, not lip-synching and dancing for hours.

Despite the down time, none of them had been idle during the remainder of their hiatus. Kirstie is now mostly finished a pop album; Scott hasn't heard it yet but he's very much looking forward to it. He and Mitch have been writing Superfruit music, albeit at a slow pace due to Scott's recovery and their changed vibe. Kevin's been working on something he still won't come clean about, but whatever it is, Scott's sure it'll be amazing.

But it's probably Avi who got the most out of their enforced break. He'd confessed, about a month ago, when they'd finally all gotten together to start tour planning and arranging some new stuff, that he struggled more with the pace of their usual schedule than he'd admitted in the past. Their break, as horrible as the reason behind it had been, had turned out to be a godsend for him. He'd been able spend as much time in the forest reenergizing as he'd wanted. He spent Hanukkah with his family for the first time in years. He'd had time to really focus on the music he's been itching to create for forever. He released an EP a week after their heart-to-heart, full of gorgeous folk music that Scott would never think to perform but finds beautiful and relaxing all the same. It, along with his reconnection to nature and his folks, seems to have been a relief, something that let him reset himself, and he's ready to step back into the chaos that is Pentatonix full time.

The van arrives at the venue, snapping Scott out of his reminiscing, and they're escorted through the behind the scenes maze that comprises a large stadium to the set of rooms where their team has set up camp. He's instantly absorbed into an Us the Duo hug, squeezed tightly between Carissa and Michael, neither one of whom seem like they're going to let go anytime soon.

"I missed you," Carissa mumbles into his chest, short and warm and utterly beautiful.

Scott smiles and leans down to kiss the top of her head. "Sorry mom."

Michael pulls back, and checks him over, handsome as ever. "You look good."

"I feel good."

"Okay," Mitch says. "Enough about Scott. Where the fuck is  _my_  hug?"

Carissa laughs and lets go, moving over to Mitch. "I missed you too, baby."

"I mean, who wouldn't?" Mitch agrees as he wraps his arms around her, and Scott has to laugh. He might have to rewrite the 'my baby's shy' lyric that's been circling around his brain to 'my baby's humble...except for the humble'.

Rhyming thatmight be a challenge.

Carissa and Michael soon have to hurry off to soundcheck and their VIP stuff, and a few moments later Scott and Mitch are following Esther and her clipboard down a hallway with the rest the group in tow.

Kirstie and Avi peel off first when Esther directs them to their assigned dressing rooms. A few steps later, at the next doorway, Esther says "Mitch, you're in here. Be out and ready for soundcheck at 3:25, please. Scott and Kevin, your rooms are just around the corner up this way."

Mitch frowns and holds up a hand. "Wait, what?"

Yes, that. Scott doesn't get it either. "Why do we have separate rooms?"

Kevin, meanwhile, is stepping back and pressing his lips together like he's trying to avoid laughing.

Which he is  _bad at_.

Esther just cocks an eyebrow. "Because I don't trust either of you to behave professionally if you're alone together."

That's just offensive. "Bitch, we're professional as fuck!"

There goes Kevin's laugh.

Mitch rolls his eyes, elbowing Scott in the stomach. "We're fully capable of restraint,  _Esther_."

She doesn't seem impressed. "So that wasn't you sitting on Scott's lap the other day, drunkenly confessing how you've always wanted to get fucked into next week while a stadium full of people were all waiting for you?"

Oh. Oh shit. Scott starts to laugh and drops his face into his hands because, yeah, that had indeed been Mitch and his fucking exhibitionistic tendencies confessing that. Not that Scott had minded at the time; he'd also been drunk and the thought had been downright intriguing. But now, wiser and far more sober, he's fully capable of using  _context clues_  to determine that they're not going to be sharing a dressing room anytime soon.

Kevin's practically on the floor.  Scott hopes he'll figure out how to breathe again soon because finding a world class beatboxer with only a few hours' notice will be a  _bitch_.

Sound check is as fun as it always is. Photo ops are the usual a blur of smile, pose, smile, rinse, repeat. M&G goes smoothly; there are quite a few people he recognizes from twitter and because it's LA, some he's met at his friends' gigs or even at clubs. A few more of them than usual burst into tears when they get to him—that's more often been something that happens to Mitch in the past—which is disconcerting but also gratifying.

They finish off with a private performance of Valentine. Scott's in a chair so he can conserve as much energy for the show as he can, but otherwise everything is the same as it's always been. Well, apart from having concentrate even harder not to just bask in Mitch's falsetto singing about being his lover. He manages to get through the whole thing without too much staring or forgetting to sing, so he'll call it a win.

He has basically the same conversation with everyone during the individual photos afterwards. Yes, he's doing so much better. Oh my god, that's so nice, thank you. Yes, he's sorry he worried everyone. Yes, it's great to be back. There's one idiot—Scott probably shouldn't call such a dedicated fan an idiot but seriously she  _is_ —who insists she needs a high-angle selfie from the left to show off her better side. She can't quite seem to grasp what "I can't risk my shoulder doing that" means, but apart from her everyone is really great.

Then it's time for hair and makeup and getting into their show clothes. He has his traditional pre-show glass of champagne, giggling with the rest of the girls while Nicole finishes beating Kirstie's face. He runs through some warm-ups, sneaks around to a side door to watch most of Us the Duo's set with Kevin and Avi, and then heads back stage for his final warmup, a big drink of water, their group prayer, and grabbing his in-ears and mic.

A few minutes later and Scott steps into place behind the center light box and takes a deep breath. Then another. And another.

It's familiar now, breathing to calm himself. God knows he's had more practice and motivation to conquer it in the past nine months than he ever has in his life. But it's different this time, because while there's definitely more than a hint of nerves going on, it's mostly excitement and joy that are threatening to overwhelm him right now. Not that he's against feeling joy, but he still needs to control it if he wants to be able to sing.

He smiles as Avi claps a hand on his good shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze as he brushes by him to his own mark. Kirstie blows him a kiss and Kevin gives him a thumbs up and a bright smile.

The crowd screams as the lights dim. He catches Mitch watching him, the smirk on his face illuminated in the flashes of light blinking on and off around them. Mitch clearly knows exactly what Scott's thinking, how he's feeling, and Scott revels in it, has a moment where he can't believe how much he loves him. It intensifies even further when Mitch reaches over and entwines their fingers together in the darkness.

But then it's time, and Scott turns to the front and takes another deep breath, stills his mind as the platform starts to rise. Waits out the warning beeps in his ear before the final tone signals his cue to start.

"I broke something I'll never get, I'll never get back."

Mitch's fingers only let go on "made of glass", a mere half second before the backlights flare and they're revealed to the crowd. Scott can't let himself get distracted now, but the public yet hidden declaration of support means  _everything_  to him.

The set goes perfectly.  The crowd is energetic and responsive. All five of them are hyped as fuck, singing and smiling like their lives depend on it. The adapted choreo works well; Scott's now more stationary, doesn't raise his arms as high, lets the others do most of the bouncing. He doubts the crowd notices much, just like he doubts any of them know about the shoulder brace he's wearing under his jacket, giving his still weakened muscles the support they need to hold a mic up for so long.

He's a little distracted by Mitch during Can't Sleep Love—which, yeah, entirely his own fault—but he doesn't fuck up the lyrics, so he's calling it a win. Thank God for teleprompters. And for the break the rest of them get mid-set when Kevin performs his celloboxing solo. Scott may accidentally spend it kissing the hell out of Mitch just offstage, until Nicole shoos them apart with a mock scowl so she can touch up his hair and Mitch's make-up.

Scott breaks down during his intro to New Year's Day. It's not the first time he's been a fucking mess for it, but it's probably the worst. They're actually planning on cutting the song from the set list because the show is running too long with the addition of Hallelujah and Shape of You. But for their first concert, they'd all really wanted to include their anthem to new beginnings and perseverance.

Scott had thought he was mentally prepared, promised himself he could handle it, but when the fans in the pit break out a bunch of signs about how much they love him and missed him, he almost immediately loses it. He can feel the tears running down his cheeks and his throat thickening at the sight. Which is, you know, perfect for trying to lead a song.

It's not until someone—he's not sure who but his money's on Mitch—finally does something that makes the crowd laugh during their second extra run through the Rose Gold oh oh ohs that he's able to compose himself enough to step back in line and sing.

He's never been so grateful for the pre-encore break in his life. A rapidly chugged bottle of water and several deep cleansing breaths later and he thinks he might actually make it through the rest of the show.

Light in the Hallway goes well and Sing is fantastic. He lets himself go, playing off of both Mitch and Kirstie in turn, riffing and jumping and bouncing around as much as the rest of them. The only thing he doesn't do is his previous run along the barrier; Austin nixed that idea completely until they're sure Scott can defend himself to a decent degree.

Honestly, he's pretty sure Austin was just looking for an excuse to veto the barricade run all along; he's always hated the increased risk. Scott will miss that final bit of direct engagement with the crowd, the extra high it used to give him as each concert ended. But he'll get over it, all things considered. He gets to perform again and it's a small price to pay to keep the rest of the team happy and reassured.

The finale confetti they've added for this second US tour goes off and so does the crowd. Between the cheering and the heart hands and blown kisses and shouted "I love yous", Scott's an emotional wreck again by the time he gets offstage.

Which means he breaks down entirely when he gets engulfed in a Kevin hug, with Avi, Kirstie, and finally Mitch piling on right afterwards. God, he's a mess.

They stay like that for a long time, eventually disengaging only because Kirstie drank too much water and really needs to pee.

They have their usual post-show snacks and celebratory drinks, and then disperse to their dressing rooms to change into more comfortable clothes.

He comes out of his room a while later to find everyone arguing about whether he'll feel up to going out to see the larger than usual group of fans gathered by the bus. The debate seems intense, and he doesn't bother even trying to join in. He just rolls his eyes, gives Austin's team a heads up and time to spread out ahead of him, and then strides out to greet people, letting the others scurry out after him when they realize what he's done.

He smiles and takes all the compliments and hugs and selfies he's given or asked for. They're always the sweetest, the fans who wait out in the heat or the cold or the wet just for the chance to speak to them. He doesn't have the heart to deny them after it's been so long and honestly he needs it for himself too.

He can feel the rest of them watching him. Mitch and Avi are the most obvious about it, apart from security, but all of them are keeping an eye on him as he talks to different fans, some familiar, some he's never seen before. It continues for what seems like a long time, longer than they'd usually stay, especially Mitch and Kirstin, but none of them even hint at trying to escape.

Scott's getting tired, exhausted really, and progressively more sore as all of the days' activities start to sink in, but he's so happy he gets to do this again that he doesn't want it to end. It's not until he sways after bending down a bit too far to hug a particularly short fan that Mitch calls it. It's Austin who comes over, but it's obviously Mitch pulling the strings.

"We need to get going, Scott," Austin says.

They don't, really. They don't have to leave for another hour and they all know it. But Scott takes the excuse granted him. He's enjoying himself, and yet he also knows he'll regret it if he stays any longer. He waves and grins and blows a kiss, apologizes with a "Love you guys!", smiles at the chorused "Love you, Scott!" and lets himself be herded onto the bus.

The others stay out a bit longer, even Mitch, probably to soothe any ruffled feathers at Scott's quick departure. It gives lie to Austin's announcement, but Scott doesn't really care now that he's safely inside and able to relax.

He sits with Esther and Nicole, drinks a glass of wine and slowly stretches out his shoulder.  Not bad, all in all. A bit overworked, but nothing some ibuprofen and sleep won't cure.

He's laying across the lounge sofa, head resting in Nicole's lap with her fingers absently stroking through his hair, catching up on the latest crew gossip, when Mitch and Kirstie finally join them. He assumes Kevin and Avi finally retreated to the other one.

"Wow," Mitch says, hands on his hips. "I see how it is. Replaced by the first pretty face you see."

Scott just opens his arms and pulls Mitch down on top of him, burying his face in his neck. " _You're_  the prettiest face I've ever seen."

Nicole laughs and tugs at his hair with a quiet "hey!" while Kirstie pretends to gag as she steals Esther's drink and settles in beside her. "No grossness on the bus."

"We're not gross," Mitch solemnly informs her.

Scott can't resist taking the opportunity to lick a broad stripe up the side of Mitch's cheek.

"Ew!" He shoves himself upright and scrubs at his face with an oversized sleeve. "Fine.  _I'm_ not gross!"

The resulting laughter is everything Scott hoped for and he mostly manages to dodge the smack upside the head that Mitch retaliates with.

Eventually the bus heads out; Scott's pleased to find that the sound of the engine and resulting movement don't seem to bother him in the slightest. After a couple more drinks and a bit more gossip, everyone starts to disperse. Scott gets a cheek kiss from Nicole and a hair ruffle from Kirstie, while Esther follows him and Mitch back to the bathroom. At first Scott thinks she's just waiting her turn, but it soon becomes apparent that she's actually supervising them.

"You realize we're not five, right?" he asks around a mouthful of toothpaste. "We promise we'll put the toilet seat back down."

She leans back on the wall and crosses her arms. "Oh, I  _know_  you will. I'm just making sure you also keep the door open while you're both back here."

Is she kidding? "What, exactly, do you think we're going to get up to in here? There's two square feet of space."

She brings a finger up to her lip in an exaggerated thinking pose. "Maybe I'm misremembering. Who was it that literally wrote a song about sucking dick in the bathroom of a tour bus? Was that Kevin?"

Fuck. Scott always forgets she read his notebook.

The saddest part is Scott hadn't even been thinking of that, although he probably would have as soon as they'd shut the door. From the disgruntled glare Mitch is leveling at Esther,  _he'd_  already been thinking about it.

Once he's washed his face and finished brushing his teeth, he leaves Mitch to finish up his longer nighttime routine and heads to bed, finally getting a hug and a "Welcome back, Scotty" from Esther before she heads up to talk to their driver.

He carefully takes his shirt and brace off and gets himself situated in his lower bunk—it's still weird not to be the one on top, el oh el—just in time to get a very nice, very thorough kiss from Mitch before he closes himself in. He's kind of always loved the bunks, the coziness of being in his own little cocooned space. It does get old eventually, always has, and he can already tell he'll be pining for their hotel nights far earlier than he normally would, missing the extra space and softer mattress for his shoulder, not mention alone time with Mitch, which he clearly won't be getting anywhere else. But for now, the excitement of being back on the road, doing what he loves, outweighs any inconvenience or discomfort.

He sends an "i love u" text and smiles at the near-instant "love you more bitch" he gets in return. Then he finds some soothing music and lets the motion of the bus and the sense of his life finally realigning rock him to sleep.

**Blink.**

**Fin.**

**Thoughts?**

**Fun fact #1: The accident took place on August 2nd, 2016, so although this last chapter is set in April 2017, real life today (August 1st, 2017) is the last day of the 12 months that Scott's surgeon estimated it might take him to recover.  Yay! (but boo for slow writing)**

**Fun fact #2: I have a bunch of deleted scenes which either detracted from the main flow of the story and so were removed, or were alternate plot ideas that I didn't end up choosing. I'll slowly be cleaning some of them up and including them as a series of outtakes, if you're interested, here:<http://archiveofourown.org/series/790326>**

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Visitation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694870) by [FreyaOdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin)




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